Impressions and reflections
by ramblingonandon
Summary: It is said that the first impression is the last but Porthos finds that it may not be lasting. Because Aramis leaves a trail of impressions, the weight of his character making each one deeper than the last until there is a friend standing in his place; and then a brother.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've done a one-shot of Aramis & d'Artagnan, a story about Aramis & Athos so this one is Aramis & Porthos, Athos may be in it but the focus is on the other two. This is a short story that was inspired by the dialogue given below, it's an idea that had been brewing at the back of my mind since the first time I heard that conversation and it finally took shape after the last season :)**

 **This story is a bit different than my other stories; less angst I suppose... (shocking, I know)**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable in this story, not making any money either.**

* * *

 **_**Porthos: Well I think he can do it and I'm a pretty good judge of character.**_**

 _ **Aramis: You're a terrible judge of character especially when you're sober.**_

– _**BBC 'The Musketeers'; Sleight of Hand.**_

* * *

His sleeves were pushed up.

The coat was open at the front down to the blue sash around his waist and the strings of his shirt had long since given up against the sporadic pull at his collar every time he rubbed the back of his neck. Aramis sat back in the chair and squinted at the paper, frowned at the indecipherable blur and held the report away from his face. With distance the letters appeared to take up form in his vision even as his eyes burned, the headache pounded mercilessly against the inside of his skull.

Setting the paper on the desk he placed a hand flat on top of it and pushed the chair back to stretch his legs; reached with his free hand to rub at the knot forming where his shoulder met his neck.

He hated the Captain for this cruel and unusual punishment.

But it wasn't so unusual now.

Never had been actually.

In fact creating neat copies of the man's paperwork had been too common a work for him to ever be unusual. Aramis let his head drop back and stared up at the roof beams; his eyes still watered.

The Captain's office was awash with the pale light of the early winter's sun and the chilled wood of the floor had a scent of its own in the thinly misted air. Sound of clashing blades from the yard wafted in from the open window. Aramis glanced down at the neat stacks of papers that were done and then at the not so neat stack of what was left.

His headache picked up tempo.

At least his superior had stopped dragging him around to the meetings at the Palace, a mercy he was grateful for even if it took a lot of effort on his part to get them to this point. Because that particular displeasure Aramis had successfully foisted upon the alcohol infused thunder cloud that followed the Captain without so much as a word of protest.

Athos, Aramis grinned at the thought of the man standing by their superior as the Cardinal finished _just_ one more letter before the meeting could actually start. He could imagine the unimpressed glare in the blue eyes and his grin widens. Athos speaks less and protests orders even less so; but his gaze had a vocabulary of its own and had no qualms about expressing what was not spoken. Aramis could read the look that had been directed at him every time they are face to face; it was a look one would give a wild, newly discovered creature that one is not sure if he should observe from a distance or just shoot it between the eyes to be done with any potential threat.

Chuckling to himself Aramis pulled himself closer to the desk.

He would have to find a way to shift this work onto Athos too.

With a nod to himself he looked down at the page he had been working on and winced. It was a blur of black on white. Aramis sighed and glanced out the window onto the empty balcony and listened to the sound of Musketeers practicing in the yard, no one seemed inclined to visit the office any time soon. They knew that the Captain wasn't there so wouldn't bother coming up to the office even if they needed him.

With a sigh he reached for the pocket inside his coat and pulled out the smooth wooden box. He didn't want to use it, not here where anyone can find him using it, but there was no other choice. His headache had reached the point where it had his stomach churning.

With a last glance at the window and the open door Aramis opened the box, plucked the spectacles from their wooden case and settled them in place. It felt odd to have them perch at the bridge of his nose and not have a book in his hand; that was where these spectacles belonged, in his room at night with a candle at his side and a book in his grasp.

But he is rewarded with the ability to read the Captain's writing again and Aramis hurried to finish his work. He was engrossed in his scribbling, smooth slanting curves flowing over the paper when a knock on wood paused the ink laden tip inches from the paper. He sat as if frozen by some errant spark of chill in the cold air and pursed his lips at having been caught like this, with his spectacles on.

No one, no one was supposed to know this. He is the best marksman in the regiment, the best shot in any regiment he had been a part of. This weakness was a secret between him and Treville, a secret not even shared with Marsac.

Brown eyes flicked up from behind the rim of the spectacles.

"Captain Jean Armand Treville?" asked the man at the door.

He was tall, dark skinned, built in strength and command with that unmistakable air of a self-reliant man.

Aramis sat back. Stopped the work he had been doing and calmly stows away his spectacles back in their box and into the secret pocket of his coat. He straightens in the chair, regarding the dark eyes that were studying him from a face that gives no quarter. This was a man not to be trifled with his mind tells him, but it would be fun his heart argued and his mind yelled warnings against what he was about to do; but the grim face before him was too much of a challenge and his curiosity was piqued. Self-preservation is concept he never really grasped anyway.

"Yes I'm Captain Treville," Aramis said, "And you are?"

"Porthos du Vallon, I received your –"

"Letter to offer you a commission in the Musketeers regiment," Aramis nodded.

He was the one who had made that letter legible too.

"Yes I remember, please sit,"

The chair squeaked. There was a hint of a frown on Porthos' face; the furrow between his eyebrows deepening as Aramis blessed him with a charming smile. He tried not to think what this man would do to him once the truth was revealed, which Aramis knew it will happen later if not sooner but hoped the big man would find humor in it before he ripped his arms off for this; because Porthos certainly looked like he could if he wanted to – rip his arms off that is, and he was rather attached to them and the Captain would be furious with him since he wouldn't be able to shoot anymore and Marsac will probably shoot him in the leg for this recklessness – pushing aside the thoughts of likely loss of his limbs, arms and a leg if he was still counting – Aramis smiled and got to his feet.

"So tell me Porthos how was your time in the infantry?"

"Bloody,"

Aramis paused, it was honest to the point he would never be himself about his experiences. There were too many scars, too many memories and too much ageing in too little time that greted him down that road.

"It usually is," he said, pulled out the letter he is looking for and comes back to sit behind the desk, "your last Captain tells me you single handedly brought down a group of slave traders who had barricaded themselves in the ruins of a château."

Porthos' back straightens imperceptibly, his chin raising just a little as he shifts in his seat as if ready to take the coming weight on his shoulders. Aramis tapped the letter onto the tabletop studying the soldier before him. Porthos gave a sharp nod.

"I did," he said.

"There were sixteen of them,"

"I had the element of surprise on my side,"

"Your Captain had a different plan,"

"The captives were at risk if we had stormed in,"

"So you disobeyed direct orders,"

"I did,"

Aramis smirked; it was the worst thing that Porthos' old Captain could have written back to Treville but it was the one reason this soldier from the infantry was being offered a place in the Musketeers regiment. He had saved lives, of all of the nine captives of the slave traders, without any regard to his own safety or future. It took a rare sort of men to do that Aramis had insisted to the Captain while they had discussed the possible recruit even as Treville had been marveling at the intelligence of the plan that Porthos' Captain had explained in contemptuous detail.

"Entertaining your guests in my office Aramis?"

"Captain!" he shot to his feet, pulled on his most charming grin and smoothed out the ruffle of surprise from his countenance, "I was just talking to Porthos here, he arrived a few minutes ago,"

Athos stopped at the door as the Captain looked from Aramis to the newcomer who had taken to his feet as well. Aramis caught the pointed look in Treville's eyes that flashed his way again and he hastened to give the man his place behind his desk. Plucking his hat from on top of the bureau he pressed it to his heart and offered a little bow to the man he had been interviewing.

"Porthos this is Captain Treville;" Aramis said, "Captain Treville, Porthos du Vallon,"

When he looked up it was to meet two pairs of glaring eyes and he was acutely aware that he drew breath simply because death by sight was not the ability that either of the men as yet possessed. He grinned, set his hat on his head and tipped the brim slightly.

"Athos," said Treville.

That was all the warning he had before a hand grabs the back of his collar and Aramis found himself being dragged out of the Captain's office, backwards. Heels scraping in order to form steps until Athos stopped once they had crossed the threshold. Chuckling lightly Aramis straightened his coat as Athos closed the door after them. Aramis put an arm around the man's shoulders even as they turn. He could feel Athos stiffen with a subtle jolt at the gesture.

"Just you and me then mon ami," Aramis smiled.

Athos held his wrist like one would a dead rat and lifted the arm off of himself.

"No? I thought we could raid the cellars for Serge's finest," Aramis said.

Athos walked away without a glance in his direction.

"Or not; we could go down to a tavern?"

Athos was down the stairs and in the yard.

"Share the woes of our duties?" Aramis called after him.

The Musketeers practicing in the yard look their way and Aramis knew that Athos was aware of it as well. A wicked grin curled on his face and Aramis grabbed the balustrade; leaning over it he gathered his breath.

"There's a party at Madame Angel's tonight!" he yelled after Athos, "We could find some _invigorating_ entertainment there. There'll be lots of perfect dark corners for your pleasure!"

The men chuckled to themselves, shaking their heads and going back to their business. Athos was halfway across the yard, his movements not betraying his awareness of the good-natured smiles and headshakes.

"Some other time then?" Aramis called after him.

He grinned wider as Athos ignored every one of his words and headed out of the arched entrance of the garrison. Tying the threads of his shirt and closing the buckles of his coat Aramis still smiled as he vowed to himself that one day, one day he would make that man say more than a few words per week.

"Ahem,"

"Captain," Aramis turned around.

Touched the rim of his hat with two fingers in respect and acknowledgment.

"Porthos will be staying at the garrison," Treville said, "in the room next to yours,"

"Captain –" Porthos started.

"That is the only one free right now," the Captain cut of the new Musketeer's protest, "you can switch it with someone once you are settled in the regiment. Aramis will show you your rooms and around the garrison,"

With his heart hammering against his ribs at the sight of Porthos' glower Aramis still managed a smile kept firmly in place even though he was sure that this was the Captain's way of punishing him – Aramis shrugged in his mind; at least the man would know that he was last with Porthos when the news of his murder reached the Captain's ears.

"A brilliant plan as always Captain," he said, threw an arm around the broad shoulders at his side and grinned at the new Musketeer, "I know everyone in the regiment Porthos, you will be settled in with us in no time."

* * *

They went to the room assigned to him first.

An empty narrow bed, a chair and a table greeted him. There were no curtains on the only window and the floor looked like it would need to be swept if he doesn't want to spend the night sneezing. Aramis seemed to realize that as he drew a finger over the bed and made a face.

"Killed by dust," he wiped his hand on his coat, "not the way I would want to go,"

"A sword or a pistol shot, what's your preference?" Porthos asked.

Was only half joking because the anger still simmered in his veins at the sight of this man.

"A pistol shot," Aramis grinned, "clean and quick,"

"Through the heart?" he said, one hand landing on the pistol in his belt.

"Through the head if you don't mind," Aramis shrugged and stepped back slightly; lifted his arms in a welcoming gesture, "I value my heart more; it's a romantic's curse."

His fingers twitched and his palm itched to grasp the weapon and shoot this man who had sought to humiliate him; had embarrassed him even before his commission in this regiment was confirmed. But Porthos let his hand fall away, he was not a murderer. He held himself higher than the joke this man clearly considered him to be. He had met his sort often in the past and he would not stoop to the level they expected him to.

Aramis raised a brow at the aborted move and let his arms drop to his side; shrugged even as he grinned.

"You would wish you'd taken this chance mon ami," he said, "ask Athos if you don't believe me,"

He turned to the door and with an after-you gesture usherd him out. But Porthos makes sure to fall behind, didn't trust this man at his back. He followed silently, footsteps deliberately slow to keep his distance from the man who seemed to know each person by name that they come across on their way to the yard.

"Ah! Serge," Aramis called out.

And Porthos watched as the old man hobbling out from the door behind the table in the yard changed his course. He had managed only a few steps in their direction, was only just stepping out from under the overhang lining the building before Aramis was there to snatch the crate the old man had been carrying. Settling it at his side and under his arm with a practiced ease, Aramis gestured at him as Porthos made his way over.

"This is Porthos," Aramis said, "The Captain's just confirmed his commission; came from the infantry, excellent at hand to hand and not too fond of talking."

Porthos felt his mouth open, partly in shock and partly to protest but Aramis didn't seem to notice.

"He growls though," Aramis turned to grin at him, "don't think I've not been able to hear that; but that's alright. I learned to read the range of looks Athos speaks. I'll learn the growling too;" he turned back to the old man, "He defeated sixteen men and saved nine lives all on his own Serge."

"That is –"

"In the letter from your old Captain," Aramis nodded at him before he motioned towards Serge, "Serge here worked with him once. Didn't you? The beady eyed twitchy nose you told me about?"

"You were under Marcheaux's command?" Serge asked.

He nodded; kept from asking how Serge knew his old Captain as Aramis shook his head with a smile.

"See? Aversion to words. I think you should meet Athos," Aramis said.

"He can't talk if you keep on yammering," Serge shook his head, "get that to the kitchen and there are two more from the store that I want there."

"Porthos can help; he hasn't seen the kitchen yet,"

"I'll tell him where it is," Serge pointed to the door he had exited, "two more in there,"

Aramis glanced at the crate in his grasp and heaved a sigh before he turned to head towards what Porthos assumed was the kitchen. He looked back when he heard a snort and found Serge shaking his head. The old man turned to him with a studying look that was softened with the upturn of the corners of his lips.

"Porthos eh?" he asked, "looks like Aramis' decided on you being his new friend,"

"Can't say the feeling's mutual,"

And by the way Serge's brows shoot up to his hairline he knew that it was not a common sentiment. He had seen the way other Musketeers acknowledged or greeted the man who had been giving him the garrison's tour and knew exactly why it was a surprise.

"And why is that?" Serge's eyes narrowed slightly.

He watched Aramis return for the second crate, waited until he knew the man was within earshot.

"I know the type," he said, watched the man pause behind Serge and glanced to the old man before him instead, "rich sons of nobility with more coins in their purse than skill in their hands. They can buy popularity but respect isn't sold Serge. And I don't think I can respect a man who finds it amusing to disrespect another."

And he set his jaw as he met the dark eyes watching him; knew that Aramis was aware of what he is talking about and dared him to challenge his words.

"And I don't make friends with people I don't respect," he added.

Felt just a little guilty when Serge realized that Aramis had heard and looked from the Musketeer moving on to get the second crate to back at him. There was something close to sadness in the old eyes but mostly he just looks angry.

"I don't know what you're talking about but Aramis here –"

"– is not enjoying being a pack mule," Aramis cut in, balanced the crates that he had picked up as one upon the other, "really Serge, I think you need a kitchen boy or if that's too much to ask then one of those cadets could do this work for you. They need the exercise too. But that's only if your old bones can't take it anymore."

And Porthos knew an attempt at redirection when he heard one. He wasn't sure if Serge hadn't seen it for it is as well, but the old man took the bait and muttering something about his old bones being just fine he grabbed one of the crates and marched Aramis back to the kitchen.

Porthos didn't move but followed their departure with his eyes, wondered why Aramis hadn't called him out for the taunt he knew had hit the mark. Deciding that the man was probably a touch cowardly too under all that flamboyance he turned around to watch the Musketeers practicing in the yard. The action to his right caught his attention where men were facing off outside the stables, upon a ground covered with loose straws and marked off with hay bales.

He watched them practice with interest, mind easily picking out the wrong moves, the silly mistakes and the leverage he could use against them. He eyed the large Musketeer who was in his shirt sleeves and tossing around his opponents like they are sacks of grain. Soon the men had had enough and there was no one left to step up to the fair-haired Musketeer who Porthos realized was about twice his size if not more.

But he knew size wasn't all that matters in a fight.

"Aww c'mon, anyone? No one?" the Musketeer looked around the yard, "Five sous if you can land a hit," he called out to one and all.

Porthos smirked.

"Ten if I knock you out," he stepped away from the table.

"Let's make it fifteen," the Musketeer grinned, "the one left unconscious pays,"

Porthos nodded; was taking off his doublet even as he moved towards the action. He could feel the eyes on him, could hear the murmuring and knew that no one would be pleased to see this from a new recruit. But he wasn't there to please people; he wasn't there to make friends. He needed to show them just what he was capable of before any of them mistook him for an easy target.

He stepped over the hay bales bordering the small patch the men had chosen for this and turned to face his opponent. His gaze fels on Aramis who had found his way out and was leaning against a pillar of the overhang; eyes alert even as he stood relaxed against the wooden support, a picture of arrogant ease watching the action unfold. Porthos' jaw clenched, that cooling anger flared in him again.

And it took him minutes. Dodge left, right, a punch to the throat and a kick to the knee and his opponent dropped to the ground. Porthos wasted no time to wrap his arm around the thick neck and put all his weight behind his hold, counted his own breaths and waited for the flailing that stopped exactly as he expected it to. With a grunt he moved away from the man, knew that if he kept his hold he may end the man's life. Breathing just a bit faster Porthos straightened, checked the grin that threatened to spill on his face in victory and eyed the Musketeers surrounding him. There were shocked faces, wide eyes and a silence like the winter haze, chilly and lingering.

"Wonderful!" Aramis broke the silence, pushed away from the wooden pillar and wriggled out of his coat, "my turn,"

He walked over from among the silent Musketeers and stepped before him. Porthos knew that this man had an idea of his skill, knew that he had just witnessed the proof of it; he wondered if Aramis was better than him at this or if he simply sought to annoy him. Porthos decided not to waste time trying to decipher the man's intentions. As the other Musketeers helped the one coming around behind Porthos, Aramis set into a loose stance before him. And Porthos charged; caught the man around the middle, intent to throw him down but found the other man shifting them both around to break the momentum, dispersing the blow of the impact and staggering just a little as Porthos stumbled to catch his balance.

They straightened in tandem.

Dark eyes met dark eyes.

Aramis smirked, Porthos growled.

They stepped up for attack in the same instance and then there were punches and kicks and holds and twists and Porthos wasn't sure why he was enjoying this. That irked him more than the slippery opponent who was faster than he had expected. Locking Aramis' arm with his own Porthos landed a solid hit to his face. Stepped back as Aramis stumbled and watched the man drop to a knee as blood seeped from between the fingers pressed to his lip.

Porthos forced his breath to calm; realized that the men around him were murmuring again. But his eyes widened as Aramis spat red, wiped at his bleeding lips with his sleeve and stood up, settling back into his loose stance.

Some of the men cheered.

And Porthos felt his face heat up.

Wondered if this was some plan to embarrass him in front of the regiment and stepped up to wipe that smug grin off from Aramis' face. Blow after blow and blocks he didn't see coming met him but Porthos did not back down, he didn't make it this far in life by backing down; no, he knows just how to push back those looking to push him down. Managing a hold around the man's upper body Porthos locked his knees, lifted and turned and dropped Aramis to the ground; hard.

Gasping for a breath he wiped the sweat from his brow and made sure to straighten his shoulders as he found his balance again. Eyed Aramis who lay on his back and gulped down air like he was afraid it was running out.

Porthos turned away as Aramis rolled onto his side.

He was not expecting the voice that stopped him in his tracks.

"We're done already?" Aramis asked.

And he turned to find the man back on his feet and ready for more. Aramis was winded and the split lips had opened again to dribble blood down into his beard. But his eyes were alert, studying, and there was something almost like teasing there. It set Porthos' teeth on edge.

This time he threw away the rules and fought like he had fought growing up, dirty, vicious and looking to survive. And to his surprise Aramis obliged him with the same; when he seized him by the hair Aramis slammed his elbow into his groin and as he locked back his arms and grabbed the man by his face Aramis sunk his teeth into his hand. Porthos growled, there was pain and hits and confusion and suddenly he found himself clutching his knees and bent forwards, gasping for a breath.

His shirt clung to his back and chest, even though it was the start of winter his shirt was stained with sweat and dirt and there was blood mingling with it in some places too. His face throbbed, his left eye hurt with the tightness that told him it would be closing up soon. And across from him Aramis was heaving in breaths in the same stance as his. There was blood in his mustache that seeped from his nose and a bruise forming high on his cheek.

Their eyes met.

And Aramis swayed as he straightened and flopped back down on his rear. He grinned as if there was a secret joke that only the two them understood and Porthos checked his own grin that threatened to show in response.

He squinted slightly in the noon sun and wondered how long they had been at this, looked to his opponent who was getting back to his feet and forced himself to stand straight again. There were telltale aches waiting for the battle rush to ebb before they accost him but Porthos paid them no mind, ignored the fact that it had been ages since he had found a good long fight since his opponents usually didn't look for another round.

He could not keep the surprise from his eyes when Aramis walked up to him, grabbed his hand in his and thumped Porthos' on the shoulder with his other.

"You my friend will fit right in," he said, let him go and looked to someone behind him, "guess we finally got someone to put our money on against you Big Pierre."

And just like that the men around them started talking, some cheered others snorted and someone else was thumping him on the back. They converged onto him like chickens upon the last grain of feed and Porthos squashed the desire to bolt. They were teasing and congratulating him and the fair-haired Musketeer he realized to be Big Pierre promised to repay him for knocking him out the next time they sparred.

Amidst it all Porthos found that Aramis had disappeared.

It took him a long time to finally make it to the table set in the corner of the yard and he plopped down heavily onto the bench. His face throbbed and he couldn't see out of his left eye but a small smile settled on his face as some of the men offer to take him out for drinks after the evening muster. He found himself agreeing and decided not to dwell on this oddly warm feeling blooming in his gut.

"Here," a glass of wine landed by his hand and a wet cloth on his face, "Aramis said you might need these,"

Bunching up the blessedly cold cloth Porthos touched it to his swollen eye and turned to regard Serge. Wanted to ask after the man who had slipped away unnoticed but something stopped him. The old man looked him in the eye and nodded.

"He's on kitchen duty today," Serge replied to the unasked question, "and will be for the week, Captain's orders."

Something stirred in him, an unease that Porthos didn't understand because surely the Captain wasn't doing it for what happened this morning right? A knot formed in his stomach at the thought, in his indignation for being made a joke he hadn't considered what the Captain would feel like at having his subordinate make use of his office as Aramis had been doing, if it had been Captain Marcheux –

"No need to look like that, the fool brought it upon himself," Serge cut into his thoughts, "doused Monsieur Bonacieux with a mixture of yellow dye," the old man shook his head, "of course it was an accident, he was too far away from the barrel to knock loose the cork but we all know a well placed hit is all its needed, the right strength behind a good throw, that's all."

Porthos was sure his confusion was showing on his face because Serge stopped his ramblings and patted him on the shoulder.

"I don't think the Captain's that mad at him for it," he lowered his voice with a grin, "Aramis' isn't the only one with a soft spot for Madame Bonacieux you know."

And Porthos very much wanted to tell him that he didn't know, he had not the slightest idea what this man was implying and what he did decipher he didn't really want to think about. Because apparently not only was Aramis interested in a married woman and tormenting her husband but the Captain was alright with it because the Captain liked this Madame Bonacieux too; Porthos pressed the cold cloth to the side of his head hoping alleviate the headache budding there.

"You seem like a good sort Porthos and since you've worked under Marcheux's command I'll allow your distrust, but I can tell you this," Serge looked him in the eye again, "whatever you've been through with that lot, this regiment isn't like that. And I may not be able to speak for them all but I can give you my word as a soldier, Aramis isn't anything like Marchuex or his precious inner circle."

Porthos simply nodded, not ready to agree with the man who was clearly Aramis' friend. Porthos hadn't the heart to argue with him, neither the desire to reiterate his firm decision to not be friends with the man Serge was so fond of.

So he kept his opinion to himself and went about getting his commission orders from the Captain, put in the order for his pauldron and got himself measured out for it. His day was filled with Musketeers coming up to talk to him as if they really were interested to get to know him more and Porthos refused to acknowledge something almost like disappointment when he didn't come across Aramis again.

It was late that night as he made his way to his new room and found himself face to face with that man again. His brows shoot up to his hairline and anger simmered at finding Aramis stepping out of the room assigned to him. The fleeting surprise on the other man's face was not a consolation and Porthos scowled even as Aramis grinned.

In the slightly drunken haze over his mind Porthos wondered if those scabbed over lips and slightly swollen nose hurt at the gesture.

But he had no time for the fool; he had stayed out late at the tavern with nearly half the regiment intent upon seeing him hold his drink and there was still a grimy room he had to clean before he could sleep off all the wine he had consumed. It sloshed in his stomach even as he stood still and the world swayed gently around him. Porthos was not in the mood to be an entertainment for this man. He shoved past Aramis into his assigned room and slammed the door close after him.

Nearly growled when there was knock on the door.

"What?" he yanked it open.

"You'll need this," Aramis handed him the lit candle and with a small wave he turned to walk away, disappearing down the corridor.

Probably out to torment the poor husband what's-his-name Porthos told himself, because he clearly remembered Aramis' room was next to his. It was only when he closed the door after him again that he realized his room had been dark before. He hadn't remembered getting provisions from Serge as he was supposed to, so there was no candle in his room waiting to light it up. And he would have to get the cleaning supplies too he frowned at the thought, and the linens for the bed and blankets too. Setting the candle on the table, he turned to get a good look around.

Found the linens, blanket and pillow on the clean bed; a freshly swept floor and no dust on the chair and table as well. His gaze flicked to the window and it dawned on him that the room was so dark because the window was closed and the coarse curtain drawn to keep out the night chill. He sat down heavily on the freshly made bed. Someone had cleaned and put his room in order, something that he was supposed to do and even if he didn't like it Porthos had a feeling who that someone was. His mind flashed back to that morning, to the opponent who kept coming back for more and more and he shook his head slowly.

Aramis was an obnoxious, arrogant brat but he was clearly not one to back down, Porthos decided he had to give him that.

* * *

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

He weaved through the stalls and dodged the shoppers, stepped onto the crates, onto the barrels, grabbed the support beam of the overhang that appeared in his sight and smirking he leapt into the air, landing onto the fleeing men; bringing them both down to the ground. Scrambling to his feet he pulled out his weapons, the pistol pointed at one of the men even as the tip of his blade grazed the other man under the chin.

Footfalls against the cobblestone hurried closer from behind him.

"What the hell was that?" the words were slightly breathless.

"Porthos," he said.

Didn't turn around to regard the other Musketeer and cocked his pistol when one of the men attempted to make a break for freedom.

"Gentlemen meet Porthos," Aramis tilted his head slightly towards the man in question, "he asked you to stop in the name of the King,"

There was a low growl that he had quickly become used to and Porthos walked past him, grabbed the man Aramis has aimed his pistol at and began leading him away. Aramis shook his head as he hauled the other one to his feet by the back of his collar and followed. It had been two weeks and he was starting to feel like Porthos wouldn't ever forgive him for their first encounter. He had apologized the next morning, in words, since his actions hadn't been clearly heard but it was probably not a good idea to speak to a man who was cursing the alcohol he had consumed the night before. Porthos had glared at him then, it was eloquent enough to rival Athos' and even the Captain's. After that he had frowned every time they were within proximity of each other; and Aramis was hard-pressed to sniff under his arms just to make sure even though he took particular care of his hygiene no matter the amount of taunts and mockery it earned him from Marsac. Watching the Musketeer ahead of him he shook his head again, he should have never worn those spectacles where he could be seen and now he had probably traumatized the new recruit for life. But he could still keep trying to put things right Aramis mused, after all if he could get Athos used to his presence surely Porthos wouldn't be that hard.

Walking back towards the corner they had split up at from Marsac and Big Pierre he found Porthos tying up his prisoner.

"That's two less murderers we have to worry about," Aramis said.

And proceeded to secure the man he had been dragging along. He had just finished off tying the man's ankles together when he was grabbed by the back of his coat and pulled to his feet even as he wa swung around to face an angry Musketeer.

"What is wrong with you?" Porthos demanded.

Aramis didn't step back from the man glaring at him, didn't shake free of the fist grasping the collar of his coat but leaned back slightly with a raised eyebrow.

"I think that's my question given the situation," he said.

Dark eyes narrowed; the furrow between Porthos' brows deepened and Aramis trieds to think back to what he may have done now to be the focus of this fresh ire. This man generally responded to his smile with a scowl so it could be anything, his taste in wine that he was sure the other man hadn't asked him about so far or his sword work, although Athos was usually the one putting him in place for that one; now he had Porthos for his hand-to-hand battle skills and Aramis wondered if there was a sharpshooter hovering around just waiting to nest at the garrison too and test his skills some more. He grinned, he would like that, he would like that very much.

Porthos' scowl deepened.

"Do you have any idea that you could have damaged someone's shop?"

Aramis stared.

"The overhang you were swinging on," Porthos clarified, "that was someone's shop, there were people standing under it. You could have hurt or even killed one of them,"

"Those two were getting away –"

"I was running them into a corner,"

"Oh so there was a plan," he grinned, tipped his head a bit to the side and studied the angry frown before he shrugged, "I didn't know,"

"That street leads to the river; the bridge wall runs on one side and it ends into long stretch of river bank before anymore street opens up. We could have cornered them there,"

"Sounds like a good plan; we'll try that next time,"

"That is if you hadn't broken your fool neck by then,"

"Porthos my friend I knew you cared," he smiled and pressed a hand to his heart.

Watched the other man as Porthos snapped his jaw shut around a growl and Aramis gave himself an imaginary pat on the back, because apparently Porthos wasn't just worried about the other lives he may put at risk but his life as well. That was progress if he ever saw any, so Aramis patted Porthos on the shoulder instead and grinned when the new Musketeer stepped out of his reach with a scowl firmly in place.

They turned to the sound of weapons clinking in step with the Musketeers coming towards them from the other street. What was sorely missing was the third thief they had been chasing.

"I don't suppose he's going to magically appear out of either of your hats," Aramis said by the way of greeting.

"Ran to the river that one," Marsac ran a hand through his hair before plopping his hat back on, "they had a boat waiting for them there."

That explained their mad dash towards the waterfront Aramis realized and decided not to look to Porthos who was shifting on his feet. The man couldn't have known that they were heading for a boat and not a corner to be trapped in. Pulling out his main gauche from his belt Aramis turned towards their prisoners.

"Now where that boat would be headed to?" he asked.

Two pair of defiant gazes met his and Aramis smirked.

"I know just the place where we can make them talk," Big Pierre said.

Aramis nodded as the two Musketeers pulled the prisoners to their feet and dragged them along down the road. He stopped in his tracks when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Porthos looked away from Marsac and Big Pierre, his face set grimly in a way that Aramis had not seen before.

"I will not let you torture them," he said.

And there was something resolute and serious in his eyes that Aramis could not find it in him to play off as simple irritation. While most men he knew wouldn't mind inflicting pain upon murderers he could tell that Porthos didn't see it that way. Something warmed in him to know that he was not alone in his search to get justice not revenge.

"I will not torture them Porthos," he said, "and as long as they are under my charge I won't let anyone else try that either."

The dark eyes widened slightly, he had a feeling Porthos hadn't expected those words from him. And as much as it pricked at him that the man held such low opinion of him it still brought him hope that he could prove himself better. Aramis grinned as he threw his arm around Porthos' shoulders and pulled him along.

"But there are still ways to scare them into talking," he said.

Ignored the way Porthos stepped ahead and out from under his arm and didn't look back at Aramis as they followed the other two Musketeers. Aramis flipped the main gauche once, catching it by the blade and weighing it in his hand. It had been some time since he had used it for this purpose but he is sure it would work just fine for the coming interrogation.

The winter sun hadn't yet begun its descent across the sky by the time he ambled into the abandoned stables a few buildings away from the garrison. Stepping across the threshold he found Marsac pinned to a wall by Porthos and a slightly confused Big Pierre staring at them from over a stall door. There were groans echoing from somewhere in the stables.

Refraining from rolling his eyes he moved closer to the two by the wall, coming to a stop at their side. Not feeling the need to announce his presence he simply watched as a slightly panicked edge crept into Marsac's eyes and shifted his gaze away from his friend to the man strangling him; he had a feeling Porthos was holding back, at least he hoped so.

"Could you set him down?" Aramis tapped Porthos on the shoulder, "I think he's seconds away from passing out and the Captain doesn't find it amusing when we do that to each other."

Porthos grunted, his grasp didn't loosen around Marsac's collar but he allowed the man's boots to touch the floor. Aramis caught his friend as his knees buckled and propped him up against the wall even though Porthos hadn't let go of Marsac yet.

"Do I get an explanation for this?" Aramis asked from no one in particular.

"Porthos has a soft spot for murderers," Marsac gasped, "Can't stand the sight of them getting beaten up,"

"There's no honour in beating a man who's tied down,"

"Honour?" Marsac snarled and yanked himself free.

Aramis mused that it was only because Porthos had let him go but kept from pointing it out in favor of holding his friend steady. It wouldn't do to have the man plant face first onto the floor in the middle of his what seemed to be a start of an indignant rant – unless it turned out to be a long one, then he would just knock him out Aramis decided. But kept his silence and Marsac' shook out of his hold too, his hair loosening from the string that held them at the nape of his neck and his pale blue eyes alight with fury.

"Where is honour in defending the men who had broken into homes and killed innocent people?" he demanded, pointed to the stall where Big Pierre stood, "they deserve everything I gave them,"

Porthos' jaw twitched, teeth clenching shut as if biting down on the words wanting to spill out as Marsac still raved about how those murderers are nothing more than the filth of Parisian streets. Aramis did not miss the way Porthos flinched at those words and had a feeling that big man wasn't even aware of the reaction. There was a story there, he was sure of it. But he turned his attention to the more pressing matters and grasped his ranting friend by the shoulders.

Marsac frowned at him.

Aramis shook his head slightly.

"Beating a helpless man is not our way,"

"They are murderers,"

"And they will get what they deserve," he said, "all of them,"

His hands shifted from Marsac's shoulders to the sides of his neck and he gave his friend a little shake, waited until the scowl lost its heat and the man gave a sharp nod. Aramis offered his shoulder a squeeze in both solidarity and gratitude and turned around in search of their prisoners. Found them tied up in the stall where Big Pierre was standing guard. As the larger Musketeer stepped away Aramis crouched before the groaning men huddled together.

"Where is your partner headed?" he asked, wasn't really surprised when the men simply glared back at him and takes to his feet with smirk, "rest assured gentlemen," he said and turning around took seven steps away, "you will talk,"

He turned and threw the main gauche, watched it hit the mark above one of the prisoner's head.

Two pairs of scared eyes stared back at him as Big Pierre chuckled and Marsac snorted, from the corner of his eyes Aramis could see Porthos cross his arms before his chest. He walked back to the prisoners and pulled out the dagger where it had struck the wooden wall.

"I'm sure I can help you cut through the confusion," he said.

Took ten steps away, turned as he smirked at their prisoners and threw the dagger. Curses followed its soft thunk as the blade buried into the wall by one of the prisoner's shoulder. The men spat profanities but the fear was sharper in their eyes.

"I'm a pretty decent at this," Aramis retrieved his dagger, "but if you keep moving around too much I might nick you."

He moved twelve steps away.

"Of course a lot depends upon the weight of the dagger, the angle of the throw and the blade," he shrugged, "this particular dagger isn't built for throwing purposes you see,"

It flew from his grasp and hit point first into the small gap the two prisoners had between their heads. They yelped; Marsac and Big Pierre snickered and Aramis ignored the way Porthos' eyes burned holes in the side of his head.

"So mostly it depends on your luck," he said.

Took fifteen steps and turned around grinning.

"The Golden Anchor," one of the prisoners spoke up, wriggled in his bindings to get to his feet, "The Golden Anchor, it's a tavern," his voice rose in pitch, "it's a tavern down Seine, almost out of the city, the Golden Anchor."

Spinning the dagger on his fingers Aramis regarded the two men who seemed torn between sitting still and wriggling to escape. The one who hadn't spoken looked away from the blade that was held lightly between Aramis' fingers and into his eyes.

"He's not lying," said the man, "we go there to meet our clients, Jacques' uncle owns the tavern; he would go there for safety,"

"I'm not lying, that is all we know," the other one nodded wildly, "The Golden Anchor,"

"A fine establishment," Aramis said.

Flipped the dagger and catching it by the hilt he slipped it back in place on his belt. As Big Pierre and Marsac gathered the two bound men to take them to the garrison Aramis met the dark eyes watching him closely. There was no trace of what he had hoped to be a softening earlier in that gaze; instead Porthos looked a bit disgusted.

"What?" Aramis asked.

Porthos looked away and walked out.

* * *

At least Marsac wasn't with them; that was Porthos' only consolation.

As the evening fell around the city and the air turned colder he urged his horse into an even canter after Athos'. Aramis rode at his side, just a bit towards the rear but he refused to glance that way. The Captain had sent the three of them to bring back the last murderer as Marsac and Big Pierre had taken the other two to prison.

"How about a game of colours then?" Aramis asked.

The random question tossed their way wasn't a surprise since the man had been keeping up a one sided conversation ever since they had headed out of the garrison. It wasn't that Porthos didn't like to talk it was just that he didn't like talking to a man who saw threatening someone's life as a game; he had expected something better from Aramis after they had talked about not torturing their prisoners but he should have known better Porthos reminded himself.

"Blue? Is that all right with you two?" Aramis asked.

Porthos glanced at him from the corner of his eye and Aramis smiled, pointing upwards.

"Well the sky is blue, some shade of it at least," he looked around and pointed off to his right, "and there's blue lace on that dress there and..."

Porthos shook his head, a part of him strangely amused by this relentless cheer. He nearly jerked the reins of his horse when Aramis offered a loud OH! Porthos turned his head fully and saw the man pat his weapons belt.

"My sash is blue," he said.

And Porthos resisted the urge to either grin or strangle the man.

"It would be much better if you two could add something to the list," Aramis said.

Porthos looked away in time to catch Athos turning to give the man a rather flat look.

Aramis grinned and pointed at his face.

"Blue eyes," he said.

Porthos snorted. He had been right; the man didn't know how to stay down. He looked up to find Aramis smiling at him like a very pleased cat that had just licked its paws clean and Porthos checked the grin that had spread on his face uninvited. He looked away just as Athos veered off to the left.

"We're here," he tossed over his shoulder as he dismounted.

The tavern stank of fish. Porthos scrunched his nose and wondered if The Golden Anchor had ever seen anything remotely golden in all its years. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword at his side as he carefully stepped over the sludge from a tipped barrel and walked deeper into the tunnel like dwelling. The smell of burnt wood added to the stale smoky air and in the foggy light of stained lanterns the faces around them remained hazy. But even though he couldn't see them clearly he could still feel the eyes on him as they made their way to the barkeep.

"We're looking for Jacques," Porthos told the old man behind the bar.

Wispy gray hair shadowed pale blue eyes that narrowed and the man shrugged.

"Lots o' Jacques here, which one do you want?"

"Are you the owner of this establishment?" Athos asked.

"So what if I am?"

"Then we are looking for the Jacques who happens to be your nephew," Aramis said.

"He's not here,"

"Really?" Aramis smiled even as his gaze shifted from the man, flitted towards the door in the wall by the shelves behind the counter that Porthos hadn't noticed upon their arrival, "because I just saw him slip out that door, a thin fellow about this high and a scar on the back of his hand,"

Porthos blinked rapidly even as Athos and Aramis quickly rounded the bar to reach the door. He hastened to follow, trying not to wonder how the other man had recognized their target in this haze yet alone to remember the details from that first fleeting encounter in the market; and when had Aramis even had the chance to notice a scar on Jacques' hand?

A shrill scream broke through his thoughts.

Porthos came to an abrupt halt at the sight Jacques cowering behind a young woman whom he had grabbed by the throat. A blade glinted much too close to the woman's neck.

"You're not gonna catch me," the man kept the woman before him, "I'm not going to prison,"

Athos was the closest to him and Porthos noticed him take a small step back, his hand resting on the pistol in his belt as his other rose in an attempt to calm down their would-be-prisoner.

"You'll have to let her go for that," Athos said.

Porthos was not surprised by how calm and reasonable the man sounded and found himself glancing at Aramis. The man met his fleeting look unerringly and Porthos refused to believe how right that felt, as if they were a team, as if they were friends.

"You've got them don't you? My boys?" Jacques asked.

"Yes, would you like us to take you to them?" Athos asked, "We have not harmed them,"

The man laughed, dragged the woman along to keep himself covered from view.

"Don't care what you do to them," Jacques said, "But I'm not going to prison,"

"Threatening an innocent woman isn't going to help with that," Porthos said.

In the fading light of the evening he saw the blade shake and watched as the man pressed it harder, a red trail trickled down the woman's throat; mingled with the tears dripping from her chin. His fists clenched at his side and he looked from Jacques to Athos, they needed to do something or they would have another murder on their hands.

Porthos glanced at Aramis.

Saw the move coming before it did but the denial didn't reach from his mind to his lips in the time it took for Aramis to draw his pistol and fire.

The echo of the shot drowned under the howl from Jacques who fell back, writhing on the ground as he clutched his leg. The woman stood gaping and Porthos looked from the Musketeer putting his pistol away to the hole his shot had burned through the folds of the woman's dress; burned clean through to hit Jacques' leg beyond. Another shot rang out and Porthos looked to Athos who had pulled the woman away and was standing over the dead murderer; the pistol in Jacques' limp hand never getting the chance to fire.

"Why don't you sit down for a while?" Aramis stepped ahead.

Grasped the woman by the arm and led her away from the dead man behind her. Porthos watched him help her sit on steps to someone's home and talk to another woman who had come out to see the commotion.

"He got his wish," Athos put away his pistol, "he won't be going to prison after all,"

"That was –"

"The Captain would be pleased," Athos nodded once, "we'll need to send back a cart,"

And that was that. Porthos didn't know what worried him more, the risk Aramis had taken with that woman's life or the way Athos simply ignored it. He didn't know Athos personally, just that his aversion to speaking was only rivaled by his love for wine, which was extreme and unhealthy in both cases as far as Porthos was concerned. But everyone in the regiment respected Athos and Porthos realized he had on some level absorbed the sentiment, he couldn't understand how the man before him could not see the folly in what had transpired.

He didn't say a word as Athos waited until Aramis extracted himself from the arms of one very weepy and thankful young woman. The man didn't seem to mind his silence or even notice it and when Porthos glanced his way he saw something strange in those blue eyes. Something that may have been exactly the same as what he saw in Serge's eyes when he talked of Aramis except Porthos couldn't be sure with the otherwise blank appearance of Athos' face.

So he kept his silence, held on to it on their way back and clenched his jaw shut to keep from voicing his thoughts when the Captain demanded his report and the entire situation was simply explained as the murderer being taken out because he was threatening another innocent life. Inside, Porthos fumed. There was no mention of the utter foolishness that was the risk Aramis had taken with the life of that woman. He wondered if Athos would have still as calmly underplayed it all if Aramis had missed and hit the woman instead, or if the shot had hit nothing and the man had plunged that blade in the woman's neck in retribution.

He tried not to think about the lives he had seen wasted in a blink of an eye in an attempt to bolster some soldier's sense of self-worth. He had seen men from Marchuex's 'inner circle' play with innocent lives just to prove themselves better in skills they didn't posses; had witnessed the attempts to stoke the confidence of those men and the deaths that it had cost been easily brushed aside. Porthos tried to drown out the blank faces and vacant eyes that could have been alive had his former Captain and his men not risked them so foolishly.

He poured himself another drink as he sat in the tavern that was mostly filled with Musketeers in that late hour. He usually went for a game of cards but that night he felt he needed to follow Athos' example, he needed a quiet corner and a bottle of wine. Porthos drained the cup and upended the bottle to fill it again, shook out the last drop and set it back on the table. He would need more than one bottle he decided.

And he did just that. Bought another bottle and waited until the anger he felt, the fear he held for the needless loss of lives and that very loss that he had witnessed often was all drowned and drained out of his mind. As the crowd around him grew muffled he sat alone at the table and watched the corner where the most respected man after the Captain in this new regiment slowly drank himself into oblivion. He had assumed him to be better, had hoped that he was the one person not succumbed to Aramis' smug charm but it seemed Athos was no better than the rest of these fools.

He had realized somewhere along the way that the men in their regiment weren't friends with Aramis, they liked him, enjoyed spending time with him, sought him out for various reasons and valued his opinion and Marsac was the only one who joined in the man's antics too if only to dump all the blame on him. But that wasn't a friend, not in his mind. Porthos studied Athos, maybe he had it all wrong, despite the apparent dislike the man had for Aramis he was the one who was willing to cover up Aramis' recklessness, so maybe he was his friend Porthos mused. His frown deepened even though the wine made it difficult for him to stare at the blue eyed man lost in his own alcohol induced haze.

"You could yell at him if you want to and he probably won't respond at the moment," Aramis suddenly appeared in his view.

"G' away,"

"Don't be like that," the man drew back a chair and flopped down in it, "Athos' a pretty mild drunk unless you touch him. Then you'll be lucky if you get to keep all your fingers. But from here you can glower to your heart's content, he won't mind," he crossed his arms on the table and leaned on them to peer at him, "although why do you even want to glower at him? I thought you liked Athos?"

"G't outa my face,"

"Sure, sure," Aramis leaned back slightly and grinned, "want to play cards? Rumour has it you've got quite the talent,"

The vein in his temple pulsed and it was not all from the headache brewing there. His hands curled into fists on the table and Porthos bit back a snarl.

"I don't want anything to do with you."

Aramis tipped his head to the side and even if the smile never slipped from his face there was a hint of curiosity in his voice when he spoke next.

"Why not?"

"Reckless," Porthos hissed, leaned forward and grabbed the man by his collar, "you're reckless. Y' don't care for anyone's life. First those murderers, you played with them. Toyed with their lives. What if you'd slipped up huh? What if y' impaled one of 'em? Or both? But they prob'ly deserved that, isn't that what Marsac says? But what 'bout that woman?"

Porthos shook the man in his grasp.

"Y' could 'ave shot her. You could 'a gotten her throat slit," he gave the man another shake and let him go, feeling suddenly drained, "bloody reckless idiot. Playing with people's lives. Think y' have to prove something don't ya?"

There was a flash of something in those dark eyes studying him, just a touch before it was gone and Porthos frowned. It deepened when the other man took to his feet and rounding the table pulled him to his feet as well. The surprise of the move, the realization that the other man was likely stronger than he looked and the sudden shift in his position left Porthos swaying. He hadn't the chance to voice the jumble of thoughts and words in his mind before Aramis had steered him out of the tavern and into the night.

"What?"

"Just come with me," Aramis half dragged him along.

Trying to keep the swirling in his gut under control Porthos forced his mouth shut and kept his feet moving. He had a feeling he would throw up if he stopped walking. Busy to swallow down the rising bile, it took him a minute to realize that Aramis had brought them to a halt and Porthos squinted in the cold night air. It was lit up by the shifting glow from the boats docked along the shore of the river.

"Why're we here?"

"I need to show you something," Aramis said and reached for the pocket inside his coat.

Pulling out a deck of cards he handed it to Porthos.

"I'm not playing cards with you,"

"I know," Aramis smirked.

"Then what –?"

"Pick a card,"

"Huh?"

"Tell me a card you thought of,"

Porthos shook his head, tried to understand what this was and where this was going. Looked to Aramis who had pulled out his main gauche and was weighing it in his hand; the blade gleamed in the moving glow of various lanterns from the boats and the bridge they were standing by.

"Queen o' diamonds,"

Aramis nodded.

"When I say now you throw the deck up in the air," he said, "all the cards,"

He frowned.

"Porthos? Do you understand what I'm asking?"

"Right, alright,"

He watched Aramis move away and felt something trail down his spine. This was important; his mind seemed to sense it and struggled to pay attention through the blur of wine.

"Now," he heard it loud and clear and Porthos threw the deck of cards in the air.

A flash cut through the watery glow and the unmistakable sound of a blade hitting earth followed. Porthos staggered towards the sound even as Aramis came to his side and they reached the main gauche the man had thrown together. Its tip was buried low in the bridge wall and it had pinned a card down.

The Queen of diamonds.

Aramis retrieved them both and handed the damaged card to Porthos.

"Hold onto that," he said, "and watch this,"

Porthos couldn't pull his gaze away from card in his hand, his thumb pressing onto the tear in the paper.

"I really don't want to waste my coins like this," Aramis said and waited until Porthos looked up, "pay attention," he said.

Porthos nodded.

Watched as the other man flipped the coin high in the air, drew out his pistol and shot after it. In his wine drenched mind Porthos was not surprised when Aramis picked up the coin from the dirt where it landed and handed that coin to him, he was not surprised by the new the hole in it. Aramis put his pistol back and nodded towards the items Porthos held.

"I'm good at this Porthos," he said, "I can see well and I can shoot well,"

There was no sign of arrogance that usually gleamed from his every move and touched his words with just a hint of smug flair. Aramis spoke as if he was talking about how the winter was well and truly on its way, as if it was a simple truth that just is.

"I knew I wouldn't impale those men and I knew I wouldn't shoot that woman," he shrugged.

The silence stretched.

Porthos knew he had to speak, there were words he wanted to voice but what they were he couldn't decide. Something stirred in him at the thought that Aramis, the man who he had seen in quite polite terms tell the Cardinal exactly how much he didn't care what the Minister thought of him, that same Musketeer had bothered to justify himself to him.

"Aramis I –"

A short scream and a splash cut into his words. Porthos' gaze flicked to the bridge where a figure was retreating before it turned to Aramis who was suddenly in his shirt sleeves.

"Get Marsac," Aramis said.

And turned to wade into the river.

Porthos' thoughts came to a halt, gaze going from the heap of Aramis' belongings on the ground to the distant splash of water pulling away from the shore. He shook his head, he had to follow – no, he had to get Marsac. Porthos turned around and half staggered half ran down the street behind him, if Aramis had been in the tavern with him then he was sure Marsac would be there too.

"Whoa, whoa hey Porthos,"

Fair hair, blue eyes, that grin he hated.

"Marsac,"

"I thought Aramis headed out with you wh –"

"In the river," he said.

And no matter how much he wanted to punch that man in the face on daily bases Porthos was glad that the other Musketeer simply blinked before he took off towards the Seine. He stumbled after him, wine slowing his movements and tightening around his chest until he gasped. But he couldn't stop, not when Aramis, the reckless, relentless fool had walked into the river that must be freezing with the winter setting in.

Porthos shook his head free of some of the clinging blur in his sight and forced himself to move ahead. Feeling dazed and too old for his age he stopped at the sound of frantic voices before lurching forwards again. He found Aramis bent over a small figure at the edge of the river while Marsac stood with his hands in his hair, cursing the drenched Musketeer.

But Porthos only heard Aramis' voice, hoarse and rough.

"No, no, don't do that. Breathe lad," he said.

Turned the inert boy onto his side and thumped him on the back. And to Porthos' surprise the boy coughed, gagged and brought up water as his small body shuddered.

"That's it, that's it, you're alright. Breathe,"

Porthos looked away from the quaking form to the man bent over it; watched as Aramis propped up the boy, smiling down at him even though there was a slightly dark tinge to his lips that shouldn't be there. The Musketeer wiped his sopping sleeve over his face in an attempt to clear his hair away from where they clung to his face and turned his gaze to his friend.

"Give me that Marsac," he said.

And taking the coat that the other Musketeer brought him Aramis wrapped it around the shivering child. Cleared his throat that sounded too much like a cough and stood with the child in his arms; he was still talking, speaking to the boy as he moved past Porthos with Marsac at his heels, carrying the rest of Aramis' belongings. As the clink of Aramis' weapon's belt receded Porthos looked from the spot where the Musketeer's belongings had been dumped to the distant forms.

His hands curled around the torn card and the damaged coin.

Porthos took his time getting back to the garrison and wasn't surprised when he found the light spilling from under the closed door of the infirmary. His head swam and his gut clenched, the rush of fear and the wine he had consumed threatened to upturn his stomach. Tracing his fingers along the wall he moved towards his room but stopped short at the quiet laugh that filtered out from the window ahead; the window of the infirmary that opened just outside of the corridor leading him to his room.

"...that must have quite a surprise for him," Aramis said.

"It was, his face was red and eyes as round as coins Monsieur," a young voice replied with childish delight, something that seeped away when he spoke again.

"Maman would've smacked me for that," said the boy.

"I think she would've understood Henri," Aramis said, "you were just hungry and scared,"

There was a pause and Porthos wondered if he should move on ahead but curiosity stayed his steps.

"Will says I have to you know, even when I don't want to sometimes," the young voice turned eager, just a touch high with a shaky cheer that was nothing like the one that had been in the voice before, "he's my friend. He knows everything about the Court."

"Everything huh?"

"Yes, he knows all the people, all the pathways and he gives me food sometimes when I can't get my own,"

"But what if you could?" Aramis asked, "Everyday, more than once."

"It's not nice to tell lies Monsieur Aramis,"

"You could stay here Henri; it's not a lie," Aramis said, "Serge, the man who brought you that broth? He needs someone to help him in the kitchen."

"He does? I can?"

"We could make it happen," Aramis said, there was a screech of chair and a cough that sounded just a bit wet, "you sleep on it and let me know in the morning,"

Porthos stood still as he tipped his head to listen better to the answer, something in him wanting the boy to accept the offer but all he heard were foot falls. They were moving towards the door and Porthos hurried ahead and into the shadows of the corridor. He didn't dare peak out from around the corner when he heard Marsac's voice call Aramis to a stop.

"He's a thief," Marsac said, "he told you he was stealing from the man who shoved him off the bridge,"

"He's a child abandoned on the streets, what do you expect him to do?"

"Try and make something of his life instead of stealing from people who earn a living,"

"He can't be more than eight years old."

"He'll steal from the kitchens and go back to his friends at the Court,"

And when Aramis' voice reached him again Porthos could feel the weariness in his words.

"Then that's some children there who'll be a little less hungry," Aramis said.

And Porthos refused to acknowledge the sudden wet burning in his eyes. Hastily wiping at them with his sleeve he glanced around the corner of the corridor just as the other Musketeer left Marsac and headed out, still in his shirtsleeves with a towel around his neck. Reckless, Porthos thought and shook his head as he headed for his room, wondering if the man was even aware that he was risking his health going into the night like that or had he even considered the risks before he had waded into the river after that boy.

Aramis was reckless but not without skill, he risked lives including his own but not because he didn't value life. Maybe he valued his own less than the others, risking it without deliberation, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, Porthos could give him that.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank you Thimble for taking the time to leave me your thoughts!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning: there is language in this one not suitable for young ones and mentions of domestic abuse ahead**

* * *

He cleared his throat.

Tried his best to ignore the tickle at the back of it and swallowed once, twice, and broke into a cough. It rattled out of his chest like a caged animal attempting to escape and Aramis nearly doubled over in an effort to catch his breath. Gagging slightly he spat the thick glob making his life miserable and wiped the back of his gloved hand over his mouth.

His chest ached slightly.

He wondered if he could break a rib by coughing, given his luck in such matters he was sure it would happen if it was possible, life liked to play with him that way. Rubbing a hand over his chest he straightened back.

"Are you sure you didn't just spit out a lung?" Marsac asked from his side while staring straight ahead.

"Just bits and pieces of it," he smirked lightly.

On his left Athos didn't even twitch as he stared ahead, but standing on Marsac's other side Porthos' grimace spoke clearly of his disgust. And Aramis felt a twinge of guilt, he had a feeling the man hadn't had a proper night's rest ever since this cough had started. Four days after his impromptu swim in the river he had yet to go through a night without coughing and being right next door he was sure Porthos was kept awake by it too. With the man looking exceptionally irritated in the mornings and most of the Musketeers shooting him concerned glances after some of his worse coughing fits, Aramis had a half a mind to shift out of the garrison for a few days just to suffer in peace.

Looking back he mused he probably should've dried up better before heading back out that night, or maybe not have swallowed some of the river water. He grimaced and held his breath, willed the cough that threatened to break out to stop in its tracks. Letting out a slow exhale he watched it mist slightly before him, standing in the cold late afternoon and pretending to be one with the topiaries in the royal garden wasn't helping matters either. At least they were the furthest away from where the festivities were held Aramis consoled himself, that way he could cough away all he wanted and the Captain wouldn't glare at him.

Glancing over to where the royal guests were gathered he tried to keep his mind away from the urge to clear his throat again.

"The short round one with the green cape, at least a thirteen," he said.

"I brought that one down to eleven," Marsac said, "you were too busy coughing up a lung to notice,"

Aramis offered a silent consent; he may have missed the two attempts the lady would have made while he was trying to make a clear path for his breaths. He glanced back to the glittering crowd and found number thirteen-now-eleven looking there way. Instantly pulling his gaze back and straight ahead Aramis stiffened imperceptibly. And taking it as the cue it was Marsac followed his example.

It was a few heartbeats later that the lady in the green cape and a few others meandered their way.

"Really? The best you say?" a light voice filtered closer, "I wouldn't have assumed that His Majesty would ask his own regiment to guard our festivities this evening,"

"Why would he not? We are his cousins are we not?"

The lady in green stopped before him and staring straight ahead Aramis smiled. He didn't have to look at the woman to see her blush nor did he have to glance to his left to know of the sideways glare Athos was sending him. The man stood for rules and propriety and as much as Aramis understood where he was coming from it wasn't as if they were being watched, and it was a harmless smile, really. He glanced at the four ladies and looked away.

There was nothing wrong in paying attention to a lady when she sought it, he had tried to explain it to a drunk Athos numerous times but he had a feeling the man was usually too out of his senses to absorb his words of wisdom in those moments, which was sad since that was the only time he could talk to the man who never tolerated his presence otherwise – Aramis cleared his throat and bit down on the need to cough.

The heavy layers of flowery scents the women were doused in itched in his breath. He swallowed thickly, eyes closing just for a moment when a loud giggling broke with someone stumbling into him. It was simply instincts that he caught her, holding the woman suddenly in his arms.

"Oh my," she smiled.

"Lady Cecilia, are you alright, are you alright my lady?" one of the women helped her away from Aramis.

He bit back a cough and settled back into his position. Saw the fleeting glare that Athos bestowed upon him – what was he supposed to do? let her fall and see if the layers of cloth was a good enough padding? He tipped his chin slightly in challenge – and caught Marsac's snicker. Despite the scratchy feeling from his throat down to his chest Aramis smirked; even while tormented by river water slime he could make a lady swoon.

"I'm fine Amy," she stepped away from the Musketeer, smiling wide, "I wish to see the gardens, I think an escort of guards would be needed,"

Before Athos could step in to put an end to it all, something Aramis could see coming without looking, another presence drew close and the Musketeers bowed.

"Are you alright Lady Cecilia?" His Majesty asked.

And even as he straightened Aramis notched the lady to number twelve. He didn't dare glance at Marsac though, not when the Captain was giving him a look that said he was lucky that the man couldn't draw his weapon within reason.

"I was wondering if we could tour the gardens Your Majesty,"

"I don't see why you shouldn't,"

"Perhaps we could have your Musketeers guard us?" Lady Cecilia asked, "Amy and I wish to see the fountains but Lady Marie and her friend wanted a stroll among the magnificent flowerbeds we saw by the east wing."

Aramis could tell what was happening, the lady had effectively made sure that all of four of them would be ordered to guard them in pairs, leaving no chance of picking someone for the duty. If he was a betting man he would have bet that their Captain saw it too.

"Of course, of course, Treville?" His Majesty turned to the man Aramis was sure busy inventing ways to control the situation.

The Captain's blue gaze looked sourly from the ladies to his men who were waiting for orders, and Aramis tried his best to convey that any eagerness the man may perceive was only for a chance to move around after hours of standing still. By the way the blue eyes of their Captain narrowed just slightly when his gaze settled on him, Aramis had a feeling his endeavors were not successful.

"Athos and Marsac, Aramis and Porthos escort the ladies through the gardens," Captain Treville snapped.

Marsac turned to him with a discrete smirk and Aramis would have chuckled if he wasn't afraid of breaking into a coughing fit – their Captain thought splitting them up would minimize the threat but Aramis wondered if he was unknowingly spreading out the damage. Because he didn't miss the way Lady Marie's friend was smiling up at Marsac as the small group departed. Grimacing slightly at the slight crackle in his breath Aramis fell in step with Porthos and followed the ladies. His eyes roamed over the grounds around the pathway they were on as his hand came to rest on his pistol.

"No need to pretend so hard now;" Porthos' mummer held just a hint of scorn, "someone will hardly try and attack us within the Palace grounds,"

"There're random lunatics sometimes, looking to rid the rich of their riches," he said, letting the ladies move on ahead a few more steps, "and if not those then there are the ones that you can tell are just desperate and you've got to wonder how bad would it be for them to try to rob a the King's home of all the places,"

"And what do you do with such thieves?"

He stopped and turned to look the man straight in the eyes.

"I stop them," he said, "shot two of them because they wouldn't be stopped,"

And he knew his words were harsh, his voice hard and by the slightly wide eyes before him it was clear Porthos hadn't seen them coming. Aramis turned back to keep an eye on the royal guests before he glanced to the man at his side who had for the past four mornings greeted him at the door of his room, as if he too had given up trying to sleep. And Aramis could not hold back the honest thought that slipped past his lips.

"But thieves like that, the desperate ones, I hope I don't encounter them ever again," he said.

It took him a few steps to realize that Porthos had not moved from his spot. Looking back he found the dark eyes watching him with the usual weariness that had emerged from under the scowls after they had melted since his swim in the river. But there was something else too, something lurking in Porthos' gaze that Aramis couldn't decipher.

"What?"

"Nothing," Porthos said as he walked past him, "the ladies are getting away."

Aramis looked back to realize the women had indeed disappeared among the tall, trimmed hedges and he hurried after Porthos. Turned the corner and found himself suddenly pushed back into the green wall, tamped down on his instinctual response to such an ambush when he found Lady Cecil in his arms.

"Aramis then?" she smiled, "I was wondering if you had gotten lost back there,"

"How could I when your light was leading the way?" he grinned.

Someone snorted.

Porthos.

Refraining from rolling his eyes Aramis offered Lady Cecilia an arm and escorted her ahead towards the fountain set in the center of this maize of greenery. He cleared his throat and swallowed, prayed silently that he wouldn't end up coughing.

"Aramis you seem tired,"

"A few sleepless nights is all,"

"Something keeping you awake or someone?" she smiled.

"What do you suppose?" he grinned.

His throat itched, the cough tickling for a release and he swallowed against it. Smirked at the woman at his side and her cheeks tinged red as she looked away with a shy smile. He patted her hand and glanced back at Amy's giggling; Porthos rolled his eyes.

"Tell me about yourself," he said.

"My father is His Majesty's third cousin twice removed and my husband is His Majesty's distant cousin from his mother's side,"

"I meant tell me something about Lady Cecilia,"

She looked up at him with a start and Aramis stilled, there was something sad in her eyes, a sadness that he had often seen in ladies of high station and there, a shadow of a faint smudge near the end of her jaw that the powder on her face hadn't concealed as good as she would have liked. Anger stirred in him but he pushed it away, as much as he wanted to there was nothing he could do for this, he had realized it long ago.

"Well, I paint, sometimes," she said and turned to lead him to the fountain, "it's just messes, nothing worth much,"

"I find that hard to believe," he stopped her from ducking away, "what do you paint?" he asked.

"Flowers mostly," she traced the engraved patterns on his pauldron.

"Colourful," he grinned.

"They are,"

And he had a feeling he was finally seeing the woman that was Lady Cecilia. Aramis smiled and the woman blushed, turned away from him even as he grasped her hand.

"Cecilia! CECILIA!" a man called out even as he marched out from the tall hedges opposite them, a wide eyed woman stumbling after him. She was hastily drawing a hand through her hair, pushing them in place and smoothing her dress as the man sped ahead of her towards them.

"How dare you?" he snarled as he reached them.

Grabbed Lady Cecilia by the arm and yanked her away, his long strides nearly dragging her after him. Aramis saw it clearly, in her forwardness that had vanished, in the fear in her eyes that had dropped her gaze and in the way the man's fingers were too tight around the slim arm. He saw it all and made his decision.

"Wait, please, a moment," he stepped before the fuming man, "the lady isn't at fault here I – I was trying to get her attention, your beautiful wife had nothing to do with this,"

"You are forgetting your place soldier,"

Aramis glanced at the wide eyed look on Lady Cecilia's pale face and nodded, pushed away every instinct that demanded he snatched this woman away from the bruising grip her husband had on her arm.

"That is what the lady told me," he said, "but I pursued, I insisted that she –" he broke off deliberately, letting the unspoken words linger between them.

* * *

Porthos blinked rapidly.

His hand stopping short of grabbing the other Musketeer by the shoulder and pulling him away from the red faced man. He couldn't understand this, whatever this was between the soldier and the lady it had been mutual but Aramis was making it sound otherwise. He glanced at the man who was Lady Cecilia's husband just in time to see him punch Aramis in the jaw.

"Giles!" Lady Cecilia gasped.

"Hey" Porthos stepped before Aramis and glared at the nobleman, "calm down right now,"

The man staggered back a little, his deep set eyes narrowing even though his shoulders dropped in a rather sullen look. He was a head shorter than him and Porthos was not above from towering over the man to keep him away from attacking Aramis.

"I should have known you couldn't land a proper punch," the man in question stepped around him, "hitting defenseless women tends to do that to a man,"

"I will have your skin for this,"

"Can't fight someone who can hit back can you Giles?"

Porthos didn't step between the nobleman and the soldier again, not when the former hissed but didn't charge and the latter goaded him too. It was as reckless as Porthos had come to expect from Aramis and as he glanced at the terrified woman that Giles had let go of in his anger over the Musketeer, Porthos could understand where this particular recklessness was stemming from.

"What's going on here?" the sharp demand cut through his thoughts.

All eyes turned to Treville who was following a rather alarmed Amy. Porthos had no idea when she had run off to find their Captain but he was thankful for her presence of mind. Because as he glanced back at Giles he could tell the man wouldn't let this go easily.

"I asked you a question," Treville looked from him to Aramis, "what happened,"

"We – we were taking a stroll, Giles and I," it was the woman who had followed out Giles who spoke up, wrapping her arms around herself she took a breath to steady her voice, "Giles saw his wife by the fountain with your soldier and he was under the impression – but it wasn't Lady Cecelia's fault. This man was trying to seduce her."

Anger he hadn't expected flared in him at the words and Porthos glared at this woman who had no idea what she was talking about. Someone grabbed his wrist and he was surprised to find that it was Aramis who was warning him, asking him in a glance to let the woman's words stay unchallenged.

"Is that true?" their Captain demanded.

And Aramis nodded before Porthos could protest.

"This – this man needs to know his place," Giles pulled himself to his full height, "how dare he try to approach my wife, pursue her still when she refuse and then he has the audacity to confess that to my face? I will have him hung from the gallows!"

"Captain –" Porthos had no idea what he wanted to say but he was not going to stand there and let this man threaten Aramis' life.

And why he suddenly felt the need to protect the reckless fool who had been goading his accuser he decided not to dwell on it.

"I will talk to the king. I will see you punished!" Giles promised before he turned to his wife, "take her to her rooms Amy," he ordered.

Porthos watched him hurry away, disappearing among the tall hedges that they had just walked out of and felt his heart sink. He couldn't remember what Lady Cecilia had said about their relationship to the man on the throne but they were related that much he knew. He glanced back at Aramis who was staring in the opposite direction where Lady Cecelia and Amy had went and Porthos resisted the urge to grab the man by his collar and give him a firm shake.

His frown deepened when the woman who had condemned the Musketeers stepped closer to Aramis.

"I'm sorry Monsieur but you seemed willing to take the blame," she said.

Aramis smiled.

"I am, thank you for reaffirming my claim," he said, "you are –"

"I'm his mistress," she shrugged, "hence safer than Lady Cecilia,"

"Will she...?"

"He won't blame her, at least not for this," the woman said, "I wish you good luck Monsieur,"

Porthos watched her leave before raising a brow as Aramis looked away from her departing figure. The long suffering sigh had them both turning to their Captain. Treville pinched the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes he raised a hand to stop the words before either of them could voice it. Letting go a breath he looked from one man to the other before he pointed at Porthos.

"Find Athos and send him to me," he said, "no, not a word. Take Marsc back with you to the garrison, make sure he stays there and don't tell him what happened here."

Porthos opened his mouth to demand just how exactly was he supposed to do that, but clicked it shut when the Captain glared back. Treville nodded and looked to Aramis.

"Report," he ordered.

Aramis stepped ahead before he stopped and turned to him. There was nothing in the face before him that spoke of any worry or fear about the fact that he may just be receiving the orders for his death from the king soon; Porthos wasn't sure if he ought to be worried or glad for that. He didn't expect the man to lean forward as if sharing a secret.

"Keep him drunk and he would be drooling on the table soon," he said, "tell Serge I asked for Marsac to stay that way,"

With that he turned away and walked over to the Captain, moving with him towards the edge of the green maize. Porthos frowned, he was not supposed to take orders from a fellow Musketeer let alone Aramis of all people, if it had been Athos laying out the guidelines he would have considered them. Porthos grit his teeth and followed the two of them.

"Captain, I've been a Musketeer for hardly three weeks and even I can vow for Aramis' libertine tendencies. But this was mutual, it was not his fault. At least not solely his," he said.

But it was not what he had planned to say and Porthos wasn't sure who was more surprised by his words, him or Aramis. Because in the short time that he had known the man it was the first time he had seen Aramis' cheerful poise slip into anything close to shock. The slightly raised brows and a touch of roundness to his eyes had Porthos looking away, he didn't want to dwell on why he had said what he did and he didn't want to consider why it saddened him to face Aramis' surprise over it.

"I'll handle this Porthos," Treville nodded, "you take Marsac with you and send Athos to me," he said and the corner of his lips twitched upwards, "and if drowning him in wine is the way to keep Marsac at the garrison then you have my permission to do so,"

He offered a curt nod and turned away; avoided looking at Aramis who for once had nothing to add and Porthos felt the realization of how deeply he had surprised the man coil tightly in his gut. His thoughts went back to the nights he had laid awake listening to the other man coughing in the next room; he had wanted to offer help or even company, the hacking sound making his own chest constrict with memories of the sick and dying in the Court of Miracles. He had walked out on those mornings, intent to talk to the man he could hear stepping to the door in time with him but every time they had come face to face Porthos had faltered, his words stumbling over themselves had dispersed in a hurry leaving him irritated in the face of a nearly apologetic smile on Aramis' face.

It was the oddity of this man that he couldn't understand, Porthos glanced back the way he had come and shook his head at another example of this confusing person; the one who could identify and spend time wondering about the suffering that may have driven those desperate palace thieves and still shoot them down, before telling him that he didn't wish to come across such a situation again. And he had heard Aramis and Marsac ranking the women and kept a lid on his angry disgust at the time but then the man turns around and takes the entire blame to save the woman he had just met from her husband's beatings; Porthos' hands clenched into fists.

"Trouble?" Athos asked.

Pulling to a sharp stop he looked to the man, the blue eyes gave nothing away but it felt as if they could read the turmoil in his own. Athos turned around and called Marsac to them before he took off his hat and tapped it on his thigh.

"I'll go see the Captain," he tipped his head slightly towards the Musketeer approaching him; "do we need more men?"

"I have to take Marsac back to the garrison,"

"Back to the garrison?" Marsac frowned, "why am I being sent back? And where is Aramis?" he glanced around as if expecting the man to appear suddenly. His gaze settled on Porthos, "he's in trouble isn't he?"

"You and I need to go to the garrison and stay there, that's our orders," Porthos snapped.

Fell back on the familiar sense of irritation when it came to this man lest he gave away his own worry as easily as he apparently had before Athos.

"You have your orders then," Athos placed his hat back on his head, "I'll inform the ladies, you two can leave."

"What? wait? No, what's wrong? Where's Aramis?"

Porthos grasped Marsac by the arm and steered him away as the ladies stopped talking and looked their way. Thankful once again for his own strength he managed to half drag the other Musketeer until they were out of hearing distance from the women Athos was escorting away. Marsac shook off his hold and frowned.

"What happened?"

"I can't say,"

"What? Where were you? How can you not know?" Marsac ran a hand through his hair and let it rest there as he turned away, "you weren't watching his back were you? Of course you weren't, you hate him so you didn't see what happened,"

Pushing down the urge to hit the man in the jaw if only to silence him Porthos grabbed Marsac by the shoulder instead and swung him around to face him.

"I said I _can't_ say," he repeated, "I'm not allowed to; Treville's orders,"

That stopped the man' words, at least for a breath before Marsac began muttering about the unfairness of it all. And Porthos had half the mind to tell him that he had no idea how unfair it all was. Instead he ushered the man to the gates and paid half an ear to his grumblings as they made their way to the garrison, a part of him reluctant to be appointed as the man's keeper when he should be back at the palace, at Aramis' side. Porthos shook his head slightly at that thought, wondering where all this need to protect the man was coming from.

"Monsieur Porthos! You're back early, should I get the food?"

Looking down at the excited young face he realized they had made it back through the streets of Paris; Porthos had a feeling that it was only due to his horse's training since he couldn't place if he had steered the animal along the way. He couldn't pull his thoughts away from the condemned Musketeer they had left behind; he really hoped that this was not the last time he had seen Aramis alive.

Dismounting he handed the reins to the stable boy and turned to Henri.

"Call Serge will you?" he said, "and tell him to bring some wine; more than some actually."

As the little one scurried away Porthos glanced at Marsac and a smile almost touched his face, the other Musketeer's fair hair had bunched in an odd bun atop his head in their effort to escape from their bindings because apparently he had been running a through them at steady intervals along their way to the garrison. And yet for all his worry the man hadn't refused the Captain's orders; something that Porthos realized he would find hard to do if he was in his place. If it had been him and Charon, from before he left to join the infantry, if Charon had come with him like he had asked him to, if it had been the two of them with Charon awaiting punishment – Porthos squashed that thought before it could spread anymore, refused to acknowledge how much he ached for that kind of friendship again especially since he was the one who had left it behind.

Pulling Marsac along he pushed the man to sit on the bench by the table in the yard and waited for the old cook. Shook his head imperceptibly to ward off the questions Serge was about to voice as he neared and quietly took the bottle of wine from him. He poured Marsac a cup and refilled it quickly when the man drained it in the next breath.

"Aramis' in trouble and the Captain doesn't want me to know," Marsac turned to regard Serge, "what does he think I'll do? Rebel? Call a mutiny?"

Porthos was sure if he was in his place he would have done both, he wasn't even friends with Aramis, wasn't even sure he wanted to be friends with that man and still a part of him wished to react exactly the way Marsac was refraining from.

"He probably doesn't want you to worry," Serge patted his shoulder.

Porthos nodded along and poured more wine for the other Musketeer. Draining three cups in a row Marsac set the vessel back and heaved a shrug.

"It's Aramis," he said.

As if that was enough of an explanation for his worry and the root of his anger; and for once Porthos felt for the man, agreed with him that he had the right to know what trouble his friend was in.

"Then you should be sure that it can't be all bad," Serge said, "got more lives than a cat that one,"

And holding on to those words Porthos sat down across from Marsac, pouring himself some wine too. Hoped that it would help Serge's words cling to his mind and erase the venomous look he had seen in Giles' eyes. He hadn't intended to get drunk alongside of Marsac but by the time he looked up to see the Captain and Athos appear in the arched entrance of the garrison his vision was wavering. As the two men neared the table Porthos hurried to his feet, clutched the edge of the table to keep from swaying and ignored the way Marsac flopped back down on the bench, swearing as he did.

Because Aramis, Porthos blinked and blinked again, Aramis, Aramis wasn't with Treville and Athos.

"Where's –"

"Not here," said Treville as he walked past him, Athos at his heels.

Was he dead? Did they hang him? Porthos was moving up the stairs after the two of them before his mind could register him doing so. But the two men who knew what had happened, knew what he wanted to know wouldn't look his way, wouldn't even acknowledge his slightly clumsy steps as he hurried after them. Busy pushing down the need to throw up Porthos wasn't aware that Marsac had followed them until they were in the Captain's office.

"Where is he?" the man demanded.

"Alive,"

The one word from Captain Treville eased something in him and Porthos swallowed thickly, the roiling in his gut smoothing slightly.

"Where –?" he began.

"What happened?" Marsac cut him off.

"He got in some trouble with a lady of high standing," the Captain said, "the matter was brought before the king and it's sorted now,"

"It wasn't his fault was it?" Marsac pressed his shoulder harder in the doorpost and swung out to slap the wooden wall, "I know it, I know it was something to do with his bloody absurd sense of honour, he wouldn't have been caught if it wasn't. What is it? Who was he trying to save? The lady? Oh the lady, yes of course, ever the hero that bastard –."

"Enough,"

Though softly spoken the word had the edge of sharpened ice.

Porthos blinked at Athos who had spoken, who had turned his head to glare at the drunk man; there was a dangerous fury in those blue eyes that he had never seen in all the glares the man had aimed at Aramis. Porthos shivered and watched Marsac drop his gaze.

"I have to see him," Marsac said, pushed away from the doorway he had been leaning against and stumbled into the room, "I have the right to see my friend."

"He has had enough audience for today," their Captain said, eyes staring evenly at the inebriated man, "go sleep it off; you can visit him in the morning,"

"You can't –"

"I can and I am," Treville cut him off, "you can go sleep in your room or spend the night cleaning weapons in the armoury, either way you're not going to see Aramis tonight."

In the silence that fell about them Porthos glanced towards Marsac and found him glaring at their Captain, a rage lurking in his eyes that sent a chill down Porthos' spine. There was nothing like the almost mischievous defiance there that he had come to expect of Aramis, instead something cold and hard gleamed in Marsac's gaze.

"Fine," the Musketeer said, "I'll be in my room,"

He turned around with better balance than Porthos thought him possible in his state and walked out. Porthos let go a breath, Athos' shoulder's lost a touch of rigidness and Treville drew a hand down his face. Waiting for his Captain to settle back in his chair Porthos wondered where to start.

"What happened?" he asked finally.

"Giles over estimated his place with the king and His Majesty wasn't in the mood to lose a Musketeer over his complaint,"

"So...he was pardoned?"

Athos shifted where he stood and Porthos glanced his way, his grip tightening onto the backrest of the chair he didn't remember grabbing to keep his balance. There was almost a forced quality to the Athos' impassive expression, as if for once he was having trouble keeping it in place.

"Five strokes," Treville said.

"Five – oh,"

And the urge to throw up the wine he had consumed returned with a vengeance. Five strokes of a whip, a flogging, Porthos pressed a hand to his mouth his other rubbing lightly over his stomach. Blinking against the sudden blur in his view that he was sure was because of his inebriated state and nothing else Porthos found himself staring through the open window of the Captain's office. The dark sky and the edge of glow from the lanterns below greeted him as a reminder of how late it was.

He jumped slightly in his skin at the sound of movement and glanced over his shoulder to see Athos leave.

"I need him to post men at the palace for tonight," Treville said, "His Majesty thinks it's prudent,"

"We stood guard all day," he had no idea why he was pointing that out or why his desperate clutch onto the chair's backrest wouldn't loosen.

"I'm aware of that, Athos would post the men before he is dismissed for the night," Treville said, "as for you; I was hoping you would pay Aramis a visit,"

That had him staring at the man sitting behind the desk.

"Me? But Marsac – you said he didn't need an audience,"

"He doesn't, nor does he need someone to argue with him over his decisions at the moment,"

Porthos frowned.

"And I'm supposed to...what?"

Treville smirked and pulling his chair close to the table turned the flame high in the lantern sitting there. Wincing slightly at the brightness Porthos waited for this to make sense, for the fact that he could see Aramis tonight when apparently his best friend wasn't allowed to.

"He won't be at the garrison tonight," Treville said.

"He has rooms in the city?"

"Bought a complete house and then wondered what to do with it," the Captain smirked as he looked up from the letter he had started reading, his gaze softened, "the corner of street where the baker is; go,"

And being ever the soldier Porthos followed the order. Told himself that was all he was doing, that there wasn't a large part of him actually wanting to see with his own eyes that Aramis was alive while the other part was still fuming over the man taking on – no goading that nobleman into targeting him with his rage. In the darkened streets of Paris he made his way to the bakery and walked past the baker's house beside it until he found himself on top of a small stone staircase, knocking on the thick door.

"What?" curly white hair bobbed in his view, "who're you?"

Porthos frowned as his gaze lowered to a petite old woman who was tying up strings of a cloak she had apparently just donned.

"If you plan to pass out drunk on my steps you should know I keep a very bristly broom," she said.

"Huh?"

"What do you want Monsieur Swaying?" grey eyes narrowed, "Speak,"

"Aramis," that was the one thought clear in his mind, he was there to see, "Aramis, he lives here?"

"Sometimes, but he isn't up for guests at the moment,"

Somewhere in the house there was a sound of rapid footfalls.

"Maeve! Would you just wait? I told you all I need is warm water there is no need for –" Aramis rounded at the foot of narrow stairs and stopped halfway to the door, the bucket in his hand swinging even as he stood still, his dark eyes blowing wide open, "Porthos?"

He was in his shirtsleeves, bare-footed and weaponless.

Vulnerable, Porthos' mind supplied.

But it was the weariness in Aramis' eyes replacing his surprise that had Porthos looking away. And he suddenly understood why Treville had insisted that Marsac not visit his friend that night; because if a friend was to come over to watch him suffer and argue over the decisions he had made as Treville and by the look on Aramis's face he as well expected him to, then it was a good thing that Aramis' friend was kept away. But Porthos was not there for that, he wasn't even sure what he was there for, he wasn't even friends with Aramis; he was only just starting to tolerate his presence.

"I thought you might need help," he said.

"As you can see I'm fine," Aramis smiled.

Yet the way he stopped short of spreading his arms wide wasn't lost on Porthos.

"He'd be bleeding out of his ears and be fine," Meave said and pointed a bony finger at Porthos, "you make sure he doesn't do anything foolish while I'm gone."

With that she grabbed his arm and tugged him across the threshold even as she slipped past him. Porthos had only the chance to look over his shoulder before the door was closed shut in his face. He looked back when he heard Aramis chuckle.

"She's..." Porthos shook his head.

"...needlessly worried," Aramis grinned.

Rolling his eyes he stopped short of a shrug, stiffening slightly even though his grin didn't falter.

"I try to make her listen but she keeps this broom that's all prickles that you do not want coming down on your head, believe me," he said, coughed lightly and winced at the move, "that thing just clings to your hair. Last time I was left picking out twigs and straws for days even after I had washed my hair."

Porthos nodded slightly, shifted on his feet and glanced about the room he had entered. The slightly round room had a blazing fire in the hearth set in the far wall, with a table and few set on one side and an overstuffed chair placed on the hearth's other side. His gaze shifted back to the man before him and Aramis raised a brow.

"Treville sent you," it was not a question.

Porthos still shrugged, neither confirming nor denying and blatantly ignoring the fact that his presence there in that moment was so odd that it was obvious he had been ordered there. He watched Aramis snort and shake his head before he nodded towards the fire blazing off to the side.

"C'mon, warm yourself for a while before you head out in the cold again," he said.

And turned around to shuffle towards the fire; that was when Porthos saw it. The back of Aramis' shirt stuck to his skin in a large rust coloured stain. But the man moved with his usual grace as he went to the pot set over the fire and taking a large ladle from the table he poured some of the warmed water into the bucket in his other hand.

"This will get messy in here," he looked about the room before he turned to Porthos, "you grab a chair and warm your feet. I'll be right outside."

But Porthos frowned and followed the man down the narrow corridor, across the kitchen and to the door at the end. A cold draft ruffled over him as Aramis opened the door and stepped out into the back garden; Treville hadn't exaggerated that the man had a house Porthos mused absently. He stopped as Aramis sat down onto the steps leading into a small courtyard.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

"The shirt is stuck," Aramis didn't look back as he dipped a cloth into the bucket, "and warm water will loosen it up without having to cut it off. I'm just glad I could take it off before the whip could tear it up, it's hard to find a good quality shirt that fits just right."

Porthos shook his head, smiling before he could realize what he was doing.

"You'd say the blood ruined it but Maeve is an expert when it comes to clearing those up," Aramis went on, before looking over his shoulder, "really Porthos, either go sit down inside or step out. But for the love of my broom fearing hair shut the door before the house gets cold,"

Stepping out he closed the door behind him. Porthos shuffled over and sat down on the cold step above where Aramis was perched. Reaching down he grabbed the bucket and set it beside his foot. Ignored the other man's confused inquiry and pulling out the wet rag he squeezed out some of the water before laying it on top of the red stain.

Aramis stiffened.

Even with the wine flowing too thick in his veins Porthos could read the pain in the rigid shoulders. He let his hand hover over the wet cloth, didn't dare put any more pressure than it was necessary on the wound that was concealed under the shirt and Aramis' easy demeanor.

"How bad is it?" Porthos asked.

"Not much," Aramis breathed out, coughed slightly but held still, "only two strokes broke the skin. Giles was all strength and no technique, which didn't really surprise me,"

Taking off the damp cloth Porthos repeated the process, grimacing at the red water that trailed down Aramis' shirt, marking it anew.

"I don't understand it," he said.

"It's in the wrist, and you have to know where you're landing the strike and the amount of damage you want to inflict –"

"I meant I don't understand you," Porthos shook his head.

And it was only the wine talking, he was sure of it.

"I am but a simply man," Aramis said.

And even though Porthos couldn't see him with the man facing away and his head dipped slightly, he could have sworn he heard the grin in Aramis' voice.

"You were ranking the women, you and Marsac,"

"We do it to pass the time,"

"So you rank the women's beauty because you are bored?"

Aramis turned around suddenly, the cloth on his back slipped and Porthos caught in the last second, scowling at the injured man who was staring at him with confusion clear on his face.

"All women are beautiful mon ami, I cannot compare one to the other," Aramis said.

Porthos cocked his head to the side and wondered if it was the wine softening his tongue and giving way to his curiosity; the part of him that had urged him out to meet Aramis' in the mornings, the one that shied away like a child behind his maman's skirts when they were face to face, that part shook his head at him – and Porthos shook his head right back at it.

"But you and Marsac –"

"It's a game," Aramis turned around fully, knees knocking against the edge of the step above him, "see everyone around the king gets a total of twenty five numbers; and when they try and fail to get his attention we bring that total down by one and if they succeed we add one."

Porthos felt a headache announce its presence behind his eyes. Even though his mind wasn't working at the speed with which he could fully understand what the man was talking about, it seemed that Aramis' game had nothing to do with the comparing women's beauty. Lifting the hand that was not soaked from the water from the bucket by his boot Porthos rubbed his fingers over his forehead.

"And Lady Cecilia?"

"What about her?"

"You wished to bed her,"

Aramis chuckled.

"If wishes were stars my sky wouldn't need a sun," he said, head shaking slowly even as he winced slightly and shifted where he sat, "Maybe I did Porthos, but I knew there was very slim chances of it happening,"

"Then why –"

"–because she wanted my attention, because she might like being looked at with something other than suspicion and jealousy and if nothing else I could be her friend for the evening,"

A friend? Porthos stared, because he couldn't somehow connect such a simple genuine sentiment with the risk loving, quick witted sharpshooter before him. Aramis was a charmer; that much Porthos was sure of, he could talk anyone into anything and people admired him, irrespective of gender or age. Somewhere along the way of their short acquaintance he had seen, accepted and been both confounded and irritated by the joie de vivre that the man exuded like an ever blazing sun – and that had led him to believe that the man was incapable of forming any true bonds that may tie him down.

Dumping the cloth back in the water Porthos surged to hid feet, his brows pulling together in a frown as the world swayed a little and the unwelcomed thought formed in his mind that had he been too quick to judge? He jumped slightly when the door behind him was thrown open suddenly.

"There you are!" Maeve said, and turned to call over her shoulder, "Constance, they're back here!"

And light steps carrying too much fury hurried their way even as Aramis' eyes narrowed slightly.

"You brought Constance?"

"I told you my eyes are not what they were and you can't stitch those wounds on your back,"

"But Constance? She will –"

"If this is from escaping out the window of another of your mistresses I will push you off a roof myself," said the woman who stepped out and walked past Maeve, "or better yet I'll just run you through with my knitting needle,"

"Madame Bonacieux," Aramis grinned even as he straightened slightly with a hand on his heart, "you thirst for blood leaves me spell bound every time,"

Porthos' eyes widened as he stared at the Madame Bonacieux he had heard so much about, the woman both Aramis and the Captain admired while over half the regiment was ready to come to blows over anything ill spoken about her; the rest had talked of her with such fear underlying their voices that Porthos had expected someone rather taller, bigger and generally much more terrifying. He glanced back to the open door almost expecting the real Madame Bonacieux to step out.

"Don't try to lie to me Aramis,"

"It was an angry husband,"

"And that makes it better?" she placed her hands on her hips, blue eyes flashing with a temper that Porthos was sure would be as fiery as her hair if not more.

Standing on the top steps she was almost the same height as Aramis and Porthos had an uncomfortable feeling that she might just produce a concealed knitting needle to stab the man with.

"It wasn't his fault," he spoke up, "he was trying to save the lady from this bastard of a husband who apparently beats her, they were just taking a stroll and he appeared out of nowhere..."

Porthos trailed off to silence, suddenly very aware of why the woman glaring at him commanded admiration, respect and fear in his regiment. Resisting the urge to shift on his feet he rubbed the back of his neck until the blue eyes turned back to Aramis.

"And you couldn't find a conveniently placed barrel of dye to pour on him?" she asked.

"We were at the Palace,"

"A pity,"

"We could always arrange for a barrel of waste,"

Her lips twitched even as she rolled her eyes. Porthos didn't expect the sharp smack to the back of Aramis' head that followed.

"A dip in the river wasn't enough to add to your troubles?" she demanded and turned to head back inside, "I have a house full of chores waiting for me so let's see to those stitches,"

Aramis grinned as he shook his head and reached for the bucket but Porthos got to it first. Picking it up he nodded towards the way the woman had disappeared and tried to ignore the tiny smile Aramis offered him. They made it back inside where Constance made a short work of closing the two long slashes across Aramis back while Porthos tried to look anywhere but at her dainty red tipped fingers.

"If you pull those out I won't put in new ones," she said as she washed her hands and gathered her things, "do I need to bring more of that tea for your cough?"

"I've got enough to last a few more days," Aramis slowly pulled on his shirt, before picking up his coat and shrugging it on, "I think my cough will clear up by then,"

He buckled close the coat and reached for the blue sash and his weapon's belt.

"Will you be staying the night Porthos?" he asked.

The unexpected question brought him up short but Aramis didn't seem to notice as he finished getting dressed.

"You're welcome to sleep off the wine here," he went on, before looking up to him with a grin "but if you snore too loud for too long you might wake up with a bucket full of water to the face,"

"You needed a wash," Maeve shrugged.

But Porthos shook his head as Constance slipped out of the house.

"I'll be heading back to the garrison," he said.

Maeve pointed at Aramis, "But you will be coming back tonight, I don't care how late it gets," she said.

"You don't have to –"

"I do," she said.

Porthos watched the other man give a helpless sort of a sigh before he nodded and with a tip of his head towards both him and Maeve, Aramis walked out. The abrupt silence rang loud in his wake and Porthos drew a hand over his forehead. With his worry over his hair and shirt and utter unconcern over his bleeding back it was easy, too easy to forget that Aramis had taken a flogging that evening.

"Shouldn't he be staying put after those stitches?" Porthos frowned, couldn't deny the twinge of worry in his voice, "They'd pull out if he doesn't. He needs to rest,"

"He will once Constance and Athos are safe at their homes,"

"Athos?"

"Aramis thinks it's his duty as a friend to herd the man to his rooms when he's too drunk to do so," Maeve moved back to clear away the last remnants of the stitching job that had taken place next to her dinner table, something Porthos didn't want to think about, and looked away from the woman.

"As for Constance, she'll pretend she didn't see him follow her home, works better for both their prides," Maeve said.

Porthos looked to the door Aramis had departed from and his mind slowly went back to all the times he had seen Aramis disappear into the night and wondered if he had been going to meet Athos then as well. He remembered their first fight, the dirty play that spoke of clawing for survival, the almost uninterested manner of the man when he had proved his skill even though he shouldn't have felt the need to, the rescue in the river and the chance for a better life that followed it. A sigh escaped him as Porthos drew a hand down his face, a friend Aramis had said, to Lady Cecilia, to Constance and apparently to Athos too. It was something the man had been offering him all along if Porthos was honest with himself.

Being a friend with Aramis, who would take a flogging to save the one he had just met might not be too bad an idea; Porthos had to admit that.

* * *

 **TBC**

 ** **Thank you everyone who reads, follows, favorite or review this story. Your encouragement means a lot! :)****

 ** ** ** **Dear Guest reviewer : Thank you so much for taking the time to share your thoughts. My intention when I'm writing is to keep the perspective of one character at a time until it is changed which is marked by the divider line. Then I keep to the perspective of that character until it is changed again, beyond the divider line. At least that is the way I intend it to come off as while reading, if I failed there and there is some confusion, my apologies, I will try to pick out misleading anomalies in further writing. ********

****************Dear Guest reviewer: Hello again :) Happy to know you're enjoying the characterization and events of the story. As for the case of missing nouns; meaning no disrespect to English grammar but I guess I've opted to bend it in my writing. It's not a mistake you're seeing, it's intentional. While I'm typing and when I proof read I sprinkle grammar the way it sounds right to me. It may not be correct, and it may come off as odd to you but for me it's like describing what I'm seeing and getting it across as a moving picture without too much words to bog down the rhythm I want for the story. In the example you gave:****************

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **"..." Aramis stepped ahead. Grasped the woman by the arm...****************

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **For me that's one action connected to the moment when he speaks, see I didn't use 'said' either. The next one is a separate set of actions and while it makes sense to link it to the previous sentence I didn't want that one stretched, it's like using space, pacing the story. And trusting that the reader is involved enough in the story to make the link like you did. This was Porthos' POV and coming from how he is receiving the information, he heard Aramis speak and saw him move ahead. Saw him grasp the women by the arm... The break shows there is no rush in Aramis' movements although they are flowing together.****************

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Now I could have used, 'He grasped...' again not doing that is nothing but my own preference. Like I try to use less words, I don't like reading hence avoid in my writing, an excess of He-s and She-s. I might be cutting them off from where they are needed but that's just my taste. I don't like having the He-s and She-s and names cropping up in sentences when I can tell who the action relates to, so I write in a way that sounds comfortable to my own ears I guess. But in case the missing nouns and pronouns cause confusion I will pay more attention from now on and add or link the sentences if it feels right to not have the noun wandering in the distance like an excited toddler; there but not in his seat :)****************

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Thank you for helping me get better at writing.****************


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning: Mentions of racism ahead.**

* * *

He rolled his eyes and wondered for the eighty-sixth time – and yes he was keeping a count – in a matter of eleven days now, about why exactly did he need Aramis as a friend. With his hands at his waist Porthos stared up at the man dangling from a window and shifted his gaze to the slate coloured sky, praying for patience. As quickly as sights like these were becoming a norm for him so was his habit for praying it seemed; praying that the fool that was his new friend would not be found by another enraged husband, praying that he would have a safe route to escape if he did and praying that said route wouldn't end up breaking the man's fool neck.

"Porthos," Aramis looked over his shoulder and smiled at him, "mon ami what are you doing here?"

"This is a street and in places such as these we do this odd thing called walking. You might have heard about it," he said.

And moving closer to the wall the man was hanging from he crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against it. Porthos watched the booted feet scrabble for a foot hold that was not there and looked up to the strained face.

"Stuck again?"

"Of course not," Aramis shook his head and puffed at the hair falling in his eyes, "I'm practicing my climbing skills, we may have to scale walls in our of line of work. It's better to keep in practice."

"And that is not the window of Madame Pierretta Armand's chambers,"

Aramis looked up at the windowsill he had a death grip on and looked back down at Porthos, his face a picture of innocence.

"Is it?" he asked, "really? I couldn't have guessed,"

Porthos had half a mind to let the man hang there the rest of the day just for that.

"Shouldn't you be climbing down now?" he asked, "or is that not part of your wall scaling practice?"

The boots scratched the wall again and Porthos watched the man pull himself up a little, more than he had expected given the amount of time he guessed Aramis had been hanging there; but the then other Musketeer let go a breath and slipped back to his previous position, breathing heavily.

"I think I should wait," Aramis said, "try and build some resilience while I'm at it,"

Porthos had more than half a mind to let him hang there and do just that. Why had he even decided to be friends with this person? Shaking his head he pushed away from the wall and ambled over to the end of the street and to the fruit vendor setting up shop there.

"May I borrow those," he nodded towards a small pile of wooden crates.

Thanked the man when he allowed him to use them and picking up four wooden crates he deemed sturdy enough Porthos went back to his friend. He set the crates one over the other, putting them under the dangling boots and checking their balance before he glanced up at Aramis.

"Still there I see," he said.

"Oh you know me; I love a place with a view,"

"Ready to come down to the level of us mortals?"

"If you insist," Aramis smirked over his shoulder.

Porthos shook his head and grit his teeth. A brat; that was what this man was; a brat who needed constant supervision; or saving if the former was not possible. Climbing up the stacked crates Porthos shifted until his feet were planted on the edge where the planks were nailed together, the strongest point in his experience and one from where it was easier to control the balance too. He looked at the boots that were now before his eyes.

"You kick me in the face and I'll break your foot," he said.

"I would expect nothing less," Aramis grinned down at him.

Pushed away from the wall to find a place for his foot on Porthos' shoulder.

"Mind the pauldron,"

"Should I expect the same if I step on your head?"

"I'll cut your damn foot off for that,"

Aramis wriggled, his weight falling on Porthos' shoulder and the crates trembled slightly under them. Porthos pressed his hands to the wall and grit his teeth as Aramis tried to reach his other shoulder with his other foot.

"Would you cut off the same foot you broke or the other one?"

Porthos resisted the urge to just yank the man down the wall and be done with it.

"I was just wondering how many extremities I'm risking with this," Aramis went on, the strain in his voice easing slightly as his other foot finally found the shoulder to rest on, "You know the Captain usually wants my head on a platter, Lady Emilia asked if she could have my hand in marriage, Madame Armand up there wants my heart, Constance usually goes for cutting out my guts and now you're eyeing my foot."

"I should probably cut that tongue out too and do the city a favor,"

Still clutching the window sill but looking far less red in the face Aramis ducked his head to meet Porthos' gaze, dark eyes laughing although his voice came out grave.

"I feel like a carcass hung at a butcher shop,"

"Better than a Musketeer hung from his mistress's window," Porthos grumbled.

And shook his head; his eyes widening as the crates wobbled at the move and his toes curled in his boots in an attempt to hold on but Aramis' weight left him swaying. And then the sky tilted and the air rushed and he landed on his back, hard. The top crates fell on his legs with Aramis sprawled on top of him. Clenching his eyes shut against the tremors of the impact Porthos turned his head to the side when he found a mouthful of hair.

Aramis shifted above him in an abortive move to get up.

"You may not make a good human stepladder my friend but you certainly make for a soft landing," he wheezed.

Porthos shoved him off.

Breathing heavily he lay back and still and waited out the fissures of pain exploding in his back, he could feel the bruises forming there. The light chuckles from the man at his side had him opening his eyes and glaring at the one responsible. Aramis sat crossed legged on the street with his hands in his lap and a grin on his face.

"You are my hero Porthos," he said, "my most cushiony hero,"

Rolling to his side and sitting up Porthos shoved the man again, grinning despite himself when the other one landed on his back with an 'ooof!' and stayed there chuckling up at the sky. He glanced to the people who had come out in the early morning and couldn't ignore the picture they must be for the wide eyed onlookers; with one sitting on the cold street of Paris and another sprawled on his back and both of them snickering like madmen.

At least this early in the winter morning there weren't many Parisians out and about Porthos assured himself – early in the morning he stood up suddenly, he was supposed to be at the garrison.

"The morning muster;" he said.

Reached down and grabbing Aramis by the arm forced him to sit up, his irritation sparking when the other Musketeer simply sat there looking up at him. Catching him by the back of his coat collar Porthos heaved Aramis to his feet.

"We'll be late," Porthos said, "the Captain would skin us; you heard him the last time we were late,"

"The Captain hardly ever resorts to such punishments, especially for this," Aramis shook his head, "we'll just have to clean the stables again."

No, no that was not happening, he had just gotten rid of the smell of manure that had lingered about him from the last time he did that. Porthos glared at the man who didn't seem bothered by the lateness of the hour or at the prospect of stinking like filthy stables for the foreseeable future. Aramis looked up at the sky before turning to him.

"If you run you could make it in time," he said.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

"You go ahead then,"

That brought him to a stop. Porthos turned around to regard the Musketeer who was leaning back against the wall with his arms at his sides, his hands slightly curled but not relaxed, there was a stiffness in his fingers the tips of which were still a bit pale. Porthos felt his brows pull together and stepped closer to the man who straightened at the move, shoulders drawing back imperceptibly as he stepped away from the wall.

Porthos stopped in his tracks; he had only begun noticing it a few days back, these subtle shifts in the man before him.

"How long have you been hanging there?" he asked.

"Long enough,"

"Your hands –"

"Stopped feeling them since a while back," Aramis shrugged and offered a grin, "oh look at least my shoulders are starting to work again,"

"I'll wait with you,"

"And give one more reason to the Captain's 'Aramis is a bad influence on you' speech?" Aramis snorted and shook his head; "he would probably start foisting Marsac on you during assignments just to lessen my glorious presence in your life and you will growl at Marsac one time too many and he will 'accidently' shoot you in the foot. Then you will snap his neck for it and run away to live in the forest, and as much as I love nature I don't enjoy insects crawling into places they have no reason to be while I'm sleeping under the sky. So where would that leave us then?"

Sometimes Porthos shuddered to think what went around inside that head.

"Aramis –" he began,

"Go Porthos," the other one grinned and stepping back against the wall he slid down to land on his rear, "I'll come around when I feel ready and the Captain wouldn't unknowingly cost you a foot and Marsac his life and I wouldn't have to fish out over-curious insects from my person,"

Snorting lightly Porthos drew a hand down his face even as he grinned.

"There is story there I'm not sure I want to know," he said.

"It was Marsac's idea," Aramis grinned, "save the berries for later he had said and more ominous words had never been spoken."

Porthos shook his head and reining back his thoughts he looked back the way he had come. The garrison wasn't too far away from there but if he waited, he looked back to the crates scattered about them –

"Go, I'll see to this," Aramis said, "and if the Captain asks you didn't see me this morning,"

Porthos nodded even as he stepped back and collected the crates into a neat pile, and then with a final nod for Aramis he turned towards the garrison; hurried along the streets that were only just beginning to get crowded and dodging the carts headed for the market he hastened to reach in time for the morning muster. His pace slowed as the arched entrance of his destination drew closer and he saw the men inside dispersing. He had missed the morning the muster. Porthos could imagine the displeasure on Treville's face and wondered again as to why had he taken upon himself to look out for Aramis in the early morning hours; these streetside rescues may as well cost him his commission. Grimacing at that thought he hurriedly brushed off the dust from his fall, straightened his pauldron and doublet before he paused to wipe the toes of his boots on his trousers just for that added neatness and wished it would lessen the Captain's ire.

Pushing a hand through his tight curls and over his beard he strode through the gates and came to a stop by the table in the yard. Their Captain was nowhere in sight and there were some Musketeers by the stables wall where Treville posted orders for the day. Porthos cast another look around; he could hear Marsac regaling his audience in the refectory and frowned when he noticed Athos was not in sight.

"You missed the muster again,"

He turned around at Serge's voice and hurried to make room for the stack of plates the man carried, balanced high past his nose. The old cook set them down onto the table and began collecting the used goblets lying about, waved off Porthos when he moved to help him.

"Sit down now lad it's nothing I can't handle," he flashed a smirk at him, "an' where's our idiot then?" he asked.

"He's – I don't know what you're talking about,"

"I'm sure he didn't ask you to keep it secret from me, 'm not the Captain here," Serge pulled the cloth from his shoulder and wiped down the table before he looked at him with a smile, "but it's good to see you protecting him,"

"I can't not. Not when he clearly needs it," Porthos shook his head, "that or some pillows and rope would work too I guess. Wrap him up in enough padding to have him bouncing out of windows easily."

"Don't go telling him that or he'll be trying it just to see if it works," Serge warned.

Porthos rubbed his forehead, why had he decided to be friends with that man, why did he think it a good idea to give it a try he grumbled under his breath. Because now he spent his mornings roaming around Parisian streets looking to the roof tops like a particularly dazed child. Someone touched his shoulder and he dropped his hand away from where he was pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm glad you changed your mind about him," Serge looked down at him, "Marsac's all good and decent but he's a ship and Aramis," the old man shrugged, "he's the sea, he needs you and Athos, his sky and earth."

What was this man talking about? Porthos frowned at the old face smiling at him because anytime he had seen Aramis with Athos it was always with the latter walking away, the man spent as little time as he could in Aramis' presence and Porthos appreciated the wisdom of it. He had been friends with that Musketeer for only over a week and had gained too many bruises to count for his efforts. Being in constant vicinity of Aramis was never good for one's health, he was sure of it.

"Porthos,"

He glanced up at the balcony where the call had come from and nodded as the Captain silently summoned him to his office. Wishing that the stables would not be as in need of cleaning as they had been the last time Porthos stomped up to the balcony and across the open door of Treville's office.

"Captain I wa –" he stopped short.

Words and steps halting, dissolving into silence as his gaze fell upon the man sitting in the chair by the Captain's desk.

"Porthos,"

"Marchuex,"

"That's Captain to you,"

"Not anymore,"

The sharp nose twitched.

Dark eyes glittered as a slow grin pulled showing too many teeth. The man sat forwards, heels of his boots scratching against the wooden floor as he shifted and pulling out a folded paper from his doublet he waved it slightly in the air.

"Oh but I still am," he said.

And suddenly there was something heavy and spiked dropping in his stomach and plunging down to his gut; Porthos resisted the urge to throw out a hand against the wall to keep himself steady. His instincts, honed over years of surviving against the odds screamed warning and urged him to run. He locked his jaw, tipped his chin up and glared at his former officer.

"I resigned my commission and you approved it,"

"Now that's a lie," Marcheux stood up with a sniff, "as I told Treville here I was not informed of your departure from my ranks. Which as I am your Captain and need to be kept abreast with such changes means that you Porthos left my regiment without seeking or asking permission."

The thinly veiled delight for the unspoken disgrace in that tone stung like a slap to his face. Porthos looked away from the man to his Captain, to Treville and realized for the first time that Athos was there too. But he focused on his senior officer, because Treville would know, he wouldn't believe this lie, this blame, his Captain had written to Marchuex to ask his opinion of Porthos so of course that meant Marcheux had known of Porthos' departure from his ranks, Treville could see that surely he wouldn't believe that –

"You are a deserter Porthos Du Vallon and I am here to see you arrested in the name of the King," Marchuex said.

And it was only when he felt the men grab his arms did he realize that there were Red Guards in the office too. Porthos shoved them away, growling at his own oversight, at a mistake he couldn't believe he had made of not being alert to his surroundings – he had grown soft, he had grown too much at ease in this place; that, Porthos told himself was his mistake in the first place.

He ignored Treville's orders to stop and glared at the Red Guards, bitter fury burning in his veins even as he understood that it were the men who were arresting him that had been ordered to a stop.

"I wrote to you inquiring about Porthos," Treville took to his feet.

"What of it?"

"Why did you think I was asking about a soldier in your ranks?"

Marchuex shrugged and stood up as well, looked from Porthos to Treville.

"How does that mean that I gave permission to my soldier to abandon his duty?" he asked and slid the opened letter across the table, "you have your orders from the Cardinal, this man will be brought to justice."

And the hands were on him again. Porthos didn't resist. He didn't look to Treville and Athos, didn't want to realize how much their silence hurt, didn't want to look deeper into why for the first time in his life he had expected someone to protest on his behalf.

Porthos took off his weapons belt and his pauldron.

Set them side by side on the Captain's desk.

And he walked out of the garrison with his head high and eyes straight. Ignored those who watched him and his captors at his sides; and silently wondered why he had believed things could be different.

* * *

It was almost noon when he walked into the garrison yard.

He had missed the morning muster already so why not wait for the aches to ease from his latest escape Aramis reasoned with himself, he would after all need his limbs in working order for whatever duty the Captain had in mind to punish him with. Strength and some food Aramis corrected himself, he had missed breakfast and the night with Madame Armand hadn't been restful, he grinned at the not so distant memory.

But something pricked at his awareness, wouldn't let him dwell into his happy thoughts.

He looked around the nearly empty yard; Francis and Gerald were practicing sword work and there was Big Pierre with Jean and Mallard. A knot formed in his gut; a chilled awareness dancing on his skin that he relied upon to stay alive, that inborn sense sharpened with experience was alert and searching for something that was wrong there.

"Henri," he smiled at the sight of the boy, "where's Porthos?"

The lad dropped his gaze for the first time since Aramis had known him.

"They took 'im away Monsieur Aramis," he told the ground.

Stepping closer to the boy he tipped the small face up, made sure that the worry sparking in his mind didn't colour his voice.

"Who took him?" he asked.

"The Red Guards," Henri clasped his hand in both his and held on tight, "and Serge was mad and he went and yelled at the Captain and the Captain yelled at him and Serge's choppin' potatoes like he wants them dead and he says the Captain's being a doormat and that he needs a good thrashin' and Monsieur Aramis; Monsieur Aramis Monsieur Porthos is gone. They took him."

Aramis tapped the young one on the forehead with his finger tips.

"Breathe lad, what have I told you about breathing?"

"Never forget about it,"

"That's right," he pulled out his hand from the small clutches and ruffling the short curls he stepped past the boy, "now you go and save those potatoes from Serge and I'll go see the Captain,"

"And then you'll bring Monsieur Porthos home," said Henri

The smile on that young face both humbled and terrified him in its conviction but Aramis still nodded and quickened his pace up the stairs to the Captain's office. His mind was still trying to draw upon any possible reasons the Red Guards would have to arrest Porthos when he knocked on the open door. Treville and Athos looked back at him.

"Why did the Red Guards arrest Porthos?" he asked.

Noticed the way Treville bristled and Athos raised a brow, apparently the other Musketeer hadn't expected him to be direct.

"Marcheux is accusing him of desertion," the Captain said and nodded towards the letter on his desk, "he got orders of Porthos' arrest from the Cardinal,"

Aramis neither waited nor asked for permission before he crossed the distance and picked up the letter. His grasp tightening at each word he read and the paper crinkled where he held it; that temper that he mostly kept wrapped in words and mischief demanded it's most violent out.

"This is a lie," he said.

"We know," said Athos, "but we would need to prove what we believe,"

And there wasn't much time for that, if there would be a trial to prove or disprove Marcheux's scheme Aramis had a feeling that the man would already have been rid of Porthos by then. This wasn't an attempt to dishonour the new Musketeer; desertion was after all punishable by death. Folding back the letter Aramis tapped it against the tabletop.

"He must really hate Porthos," he said and looked to his Captain, "the letter of resignation that Marchuex approved, Porthos must have given it to you,"

"I have it right here but he says that Porthos forged it," Treville frowned, "I don't believe him. Yet between his words and Porthos' which do you think will hold more weight at the trial?"

"Oh I think the Cardinal's word will hold the most weight there," he smirked.

And hastened over to the bureau where he knew the Captain filed his correspondences. Aramis ignored Treville's annoyed huff and skimmed through the pile of letters he knew were from the not so distant past, riffled through the stacks he knew he would be straightening later deep into the night but for the moment only one thing mattered.

"Here," he pulled out the letter Marcheux had sent his Captain telling him about Porthos, "This will be our proof,"

"It doesn't say anything about allowing Porthos to resign his commission,"

Aramis rolled his eyes, and motioned for Athos to give him the letter Porthos had presented to the Captain as a proof of his approved resignation even as he opened the Cardinal's orders of the Musketeer's arrest.

"They are all written by the same hand," he said, "I've worked long enough for you to know the Cardinal's writing and these orders aren't from him. They were forged by Marcheux."

Treville looked down at the letters, pulling them closer to him even as Athos looked to Aramis.

"And how will we prove that it wasn't someone else who wrote the Cardinal's orders? That it was specifically Marcheux who forged them."

"Marcheux agrees that he wrote this letter," Aramis took the one from Treville's hand, "the same person wrote this one," he said, "and the same person approved this resignation letter."

He plucked the sheets of paper off the desk and stepped aside to let more of the pale sunlight in from the window. He brought the three papers into its glow wondering why the other two couldn't see it, or it might be that they needed spectacles like his own to notice what he did – he really hoped that was not the case, he would produce them if he had to, it wasn't worth loosing Porthos' life over but he really, really, really didn't want anyone else knowing that he used spectacles – with a smirk he tapped on his proof that appeared in clearer light without the need for his glasses.

"See this? This slight blur at the end here, and here, here too," he pointed various light smudges out on the three letters, "you'll see it's not in Porthos' writing above this note of approval."

Treville looked up at him with a frown and he could tell there was an impatient reprimand on the way but Aramis glanced at Athos and felt a smirk tip up on his face when he saw the smile in those blue eyes.

"Marcheux writes with his left hand," Athos said, "and if he forged the Cardinal's orders then there would be some stain on his hand where he must have accidently dragged the ink."

"Exactly," he grinned and looked to their Captain, "now who have you sent to keep an eye on things in prison?"

It was the way Treville looked away and back at the letters that had him straightening away from the table. Aramis pulled his hat of his head and ran a hand through his hair, of all the oversights to make he couldn't believe his Captain managed this one.

"How can you not see this was all a scheme?"

"I knew it was,"

"Then why isn't there anyone there watching his back?"

"He's surrounded by Red Guards who –"

" – will happily look the other way if a Musketeer is beaten or put to death," Aramis turned away from them and headed for the door, "Porthos is alone and weaponless with Marcheux out for his blood apparently and the only people around would gladly let that man do as he pleases."

He knew the Captain liked them to think better of the Red Guards but he had assumed that at least Treville was aware of how deep the resentment ran between their regiments. Granted there were men in the other regiment who were decent and honourable but he couldn't believe that their Captain would risk Porthos' life based on such handful of men.

The grasp on his arm brought him to a stop on the stairs and he half turned to regard the Captain who was a step behind him.

"Where are you going?" Treville asked.

"Precisely where you think I am,"

"I won't have you ruin our chances of saving him; we will prove this forgery in a trial –"

" – that Porthos may never see," Aramis turned fully and looked up to the man he probably respected the most in his life, "you know desertion is met with death; that is what Marcheux is here for. If he had forged the orders do you think he would wait for some real ones to lead Porthos to the firing squad?"

Treville's eyes narrowed, brows pulling together as the creases around his mouth deepened, his Captain understood what he was planning Aramis could tell. Look away he urged him silently, look away; because it was not something a commanding officer could approve but it was a risk Aramis would bear willingly.

"We will get a trial by the evening," Treville nodded and turned back to head up to his office.

Aramis checked the grin before it could break out on his face; he couldn't disregard how difficult it was for his Captain to let him go through with this. With a shake of his head he descended the stairs stopping again when he found Athos following him.

"Not this time my friend," Aramis turned to him, "but I need your help with something else,"

Blue eyes studied him.

"I need you to help the Captain get this trial as soon as possible," he went on, "he's a soldier at heart and with one of his men threatened right now he will need help maneuvering through all the court's affairs."

Dark brows rose sharply.

"You're from the nobility you'll know how and what to do," Aramis smirked lightly, "don't look at me like that, it's a presence all on its own around you. Anyone can see it."

Something almost like a warning skittered across the face watching him and Aramis shook his head.

"Fine, maybe not everyone but I do," he shrugged and reached out to lay a hand on Athos' shoulder, "you have your past mon ami and I have no interest in finding out about it unless you're willing to share. But right now if you could use what you've been taught growing up to get this sorted as quickly as possible I would be in your debt,"

He needed this trial soon, Porthos needed it.

"I don't think there is a score to be kept between friends," Athos said.

Wait – what?

The corner of Athos' lips twitched up.

"I will go help the Captain," he said.

Aramis blinked rapidly, watched the man heading back to Treville's office and shook his head because had he heard right he wondered. Cast a glance around to see if there was someone around to prove that he had heard what he thought he had heard. A slow smile crept up on his face as Aramis turned away and walked across the yard out into the street.

He needed some hairpins and a drunk Red Guard preferably passed out somewhere between there and the prison.

* * *

He shouldn't have let his guard down.

He shouldn't have gotten comfortable.

There was no one to blame but his own foolishness into believing that he had left the worst of his experiences behind him. Life had shown him how clearly wrong he was with Marcheux's too wide grin facing him again. Porthos huffed and let up on the chain he had been pulling, it linked the manacles around his wrists limiting his reach; it still didn't stop him from trying to pull them just a bit for further away. Letting his hands drop into his lap he rested his head against the wall at his back, the cold was heavier there below the ground and the winter sunlight that streaked in through a narrow barred window set high over his head provided no warmth.

It did tell him that the early morning had dissolved into afternoon and even that was waning, he had a feeling the sunset laying in wait would be his last. Marcheux had been eager to get him in front of a firing squad come dawn, and while somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that that couldn't happen with trial, even if a mockery of it, yet Porthos couldn't ignore the sense of loss that was his punishment for putting his trust in people again.

He had promised himself time and again, reminded himself over and over that the only one to trust to watch his back was himself.

He had walked away from the Court knowing that he was on his own, had told himself that he didn't need friends. And when he had years later finally decided to accept friendship it had been of Aramis of all people, Porthos rolled his eyes at that realization but couldn't deny that he felt something almost like fondness too. No matter how much he questioned his decision the past week looking out for Aramis had been interesting if nothing else.

Porthos found a smile touch his face but it vanished at the sound of footfalls drawing nearer. He sat forwards, hands curling into fists as he listened carefully and pushed to his feet when the person outside kept coming closer. He frowned at the red cloaked figure that came to a stop by the bars of his prison, his brows shooting up to his hairline when that person tipped up the metal helmet.

Familiar dark eyes met his from under the dull metal edge.

"Aramis,"

"At your service," the man smirked.

Pulled out something thin and long from within his doublet and crouched before the lock on the prison door. Porthos simply stared as the other Musketeer stuck one of the hairpins he had brought in the keyhole and used the other to push up the rim of the helmet again, huffing when it slid and the edge dropped over his eyes again.

"What?" Porthos neared the bars, "what are you doing?"

"Wondering whoever designed this helmet had no regard for the need to see, or hear for that matter," Aramis didn't look away from his work, "feels like I've stuck my head in a bucket,"

Wrapping his hands around the metal bars Porthos resisted the urge to check if was imagining this, as far as he remembered the Red Guards hadn't roughed him up on the way to his prison so this was not a head injury talking back at him. But if Aramis was here then –

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"For the incredibly dingy scenery," Aramis said and gritting his teeth rattled the hairpin in the keyhole, "I just enjoy the whole dark, damp and desolate setting you have here and this scent of old vomit about this place is precisely what I was looking for."

"Aramis –"

A hiss stopped his words and he watched Aramis wring his hand in the air before wiping it on his trousers as he reached again for the hairpins, both by then stuck in the keyhole.

"Or maybe this is a rescue," Aramis glanced at him and went on with his ear slightly tilted towards the lock, "if you would be so inclined to believe that is,"

And that fondness bloomed again in his chest, warming him in a way that misted his eyes and Porthos hastily blinked it away. After the Captain and Athos' silence and the quiet curiosity of his fellow Musketeers this clearly ill-planned attempt to save him without being asked stirred something in him that he could not dwell upon – not yet.

With a slow breath out Porthos crouched on the other side of the locked prison door, the chain between the manacles clinked as he reached between the bars and grabbed Aramis' wrist.

"Stop," he smiled at the surprised face before him, "this won't work,"

"Of course it will,"

"And what do you think I will do after breaking out of here?"

"Hide aboard a ship to Spain, wait until open waters to declare mutiny and then commandeer the vessel as your first pirate acquisition," was the prompt reply.

"Live out my days as a pirate?"

"The rocking of waves doesn't make you sick does it?"

Porthos couldn't help the grin that spread on his face; he had no idea when he had come to enjoy the random banter this man was always ready with. The wrist from his grasp pulled away and his thoughts snapped back to the situation at hand, to the sight of Aramis' eyes narrowed in concentration as he tried to pick the lock to his prison.

"This would only make matters worse," Porthos sighed, let his forehead rest against the bars in front him, "I'm already accused of desertion,"

"Marcheux forged the Cardinal's orders," Aramis said, "for some reason he wants you dead and he doesn't want to be held responsible for it. But if he hadn't already found a way to get orders for your execution he may be coming here to murder you."

Porthos straightened.

"The Cardinal doesn't know about this?"

"Not yet," Aramis smirked as he glanced at him, "but he will any moment now and Marcheux would be rather pushed for time if he wants to see you dead,"

Aramis tilted up one of the hairpins where it was stuck in the keyhole and turned it slowly, Porthos jumped a little at the soft click that followed. His wide eyes looked to Aramis' smug face just as he noticed the movement from the corner of his eyes. His warning died on his lips as Aramis rose slightly and turned around out of that soldier's sense of awareness just as a resounding clang echoed out.

"No," fell from his lips even as Porthos surged to his feet, hands grasping at his friend who fell against the bars, "Aramis? Aramis you alright?"

"Fine, fine, I'm fine," he breathed out, the white knuckled grip on the prison bar not loosening even as he straightened, "didn't even break skin under this," he added.

Porthos watched his friend press his fingers to the metal over his head where the butt of the pistol had smashed against it before his gaze shifted to the man pointing the same pistol at them. Aramis turned slightly to regard the man as well.

"Marcheux I presume," he said.

"What are you doing here?" the man demanded, "your Captain said there would be no Red Guards posted here,"

"And there aren't,"

"What?"

"Not what, Red Guards, there are no Red Guards here," Aramis said before he turned to Porthos, his voice never lowering, "I can see why you would have trouble getting your point across to this man," he said.

Porthos' grasped at the cloak over his friend's shoulder and tugged it in warning, Marcheux was irritable on the best of days, riling him when he had a finger around the trigger of a pistol was far from wise. But Aramis either ignored the message or didn't receive it though being a betting man Porthos would put his money on the former. It only served him to tug harder as his friend looked back to Marcheux.

"So you plan to shoot us? In a prison? There may be no Red Guards here but the sound of your shots will travel further," he said, pushed away from the metal bars behind him and out of Porthos' warning reach, "what are you basing this plan on? Momentary loss of hearing for all in the vicinity?"

"I will stab him through the heart,"

Aramis shifted, moved closer to Marcheux and Porthos noticed his former Captain step aside in order to maintain his distance.'

"And you suppose Porthos will just stand there and take it?"

The pistol aimed at Aramis' head.

"He will if he wants to see his friend live,"

"Who says we are friends? Maybe I like roaming the dungeons of this prison looking for interesting conversations, the condemned have the best stories to tell don't you think? " there was no fear in that voice as Aramis stepped closer to the man.

Marcheux stepped aside again and Porthos bit back a smirk, saw where his former Captain was headed unknowingly. The man was too focused on Aramis to see that he was moving closer to stand before the prison door; the door that Porthos knew was unlocked now.

"Why are you so intent upon seeing Porthos dead?" Aramis asked.

Tipped up the edge of his helmet as if to get a better look and shuffled a little closer, the weapons on his belt showing as he rested his other hand on the hilt of his sword. Porthos didn't miss the way it had Marcheux steady his pistol that was still trained on the Musketeer, didn't overlook how the man wasn't paying him any attention as Porthos moved closer to the door.

"He doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve to be in the King's regiment," Marcheux snapped, "I told Treville –"

"In your letter, yes I know," Aramis nodded, "and I wondered even then that what sort of a sorry excuse for a human being you were to pass a judgment like that, especially since your soldier showed more honour than you."

Aramis gave a short laugh that was anything but merry.

"That's it isn't it?" he nodded, "he's more honourable than you, is smarter, stronger, braver, better at being a leader than you will ever be –"

"He is nothing! No one! Pretending to be all grand and better than us when he is no more than a –"

Porthos slammed the door open catching the man in the shoulder just as Aramis rushed forwards to shove Marcheux into the wall behind him. The man's indignant roar drowned in the sound of the shot ringing out and Aramis hissed, his hold on the man loosening slightly but Porthos was there; looping the chain of his manacles around his former Captain's neck Porthos dragged him away from his friend.

The man struggled, clawed at his hands and tried to elbow him in the side but Porthos held firm. All those times he had seen this man beat his companions to near death, him and his friends looting through the villages they had passed along during their marches, their desire for glory costing needless lives, all those memories pulsed in his veins, roared with the sound of his blood rushing past his ears.

"Porthos, Porthos that's enough, you don't want to do this,"

A calloused hand rested on the side of his face.

Dark eyes met his and there was worry there, but understanding too.

With a grunt he let Marcheux drop to the ground, stepped back against the wall and bending forwards he clutched at his knees to pull in a breath that just wouldn't come. There were voices and footfalls and he was only aware that the presence crouching by his side was suddenly pulled away. He shook his head then, tried to dislodge the cloying web of what he had almost done and pull his attention to the present. But by the time he managed it he was locked up in the prison again.

Blinking slowly he stared at his still bound wrists and the fading sunlight on the grimy floor he sat upon.

Forcing his head up he blinked again; for there was Aramis, bound the same way as he was and sitting leaning against the opposite wall and staring at the window high above Porthos' head. Long fingers tapped the manacle on his opposite wrist as the other Musketeer traced the movements above ground that cut the light spilling from their narrow window.

Porthos cleared his throat, couldn't meet the eyes that he knew turned to him at the sound. He couldn't face the man who was in this predicament because of him, maybe it was better that no one watched his back Porthos thought, at least then he wouldn't feel this guilt that he did at the moment.

"Why did you even come here?" he sighed.

"We're friends now aren't we?"

"So?" Porthos looked at him, part challenging part defying.

"So you save me from high windows I save you from deep dungeons and we both save Athos from a river of wine," Aramis let his head drop back against the wall, one of his chained hands coming to rest on the knee he had pulled up as he stared at the ceiling above, "because he'll turn into a deranged fish if he ever saw one such river and I won't be able to hold onto him alone. He's too smart, you have to patiently wait and try to understand his moves since you never know what is going on in that sharp mind of his. So he can ne terribly slippery when he wants to be and I should know; I'm used to catching fish from streams. Did you ever do that Porthos? Catch a fish in your hands right out of the water?" he looked back down to him.

And suddenly Porthos imagined a rather bored Athos-as-a-fish looking back at him steadily from where he clutched at him with both hands. Wiping his hands down his face he cleared that picture away and looked to the man across from him.

"I don't know if I want to know what goes on in that head of yours," he said.

"My mother used to say it is the devil's workshop," Aramis shrugged.

Porthos snorted.

"Perceptive woman,"

"Very," Aramis flashed him a smile.

Porthos looked away.

It gnawed at him to remember how easily he had assumed things about this man, things that had been far from the truth. He would never have believed in those moments when he met Aramis that this man would be the one sitting in prison with him after attempting to break him out, that the man would risk everything to save his life from his former Captain. Porthos shuddered softly, he had almost killed Marcheux with sheer force, something he had promised himself he would never do; he was strong he knew that but he had made a vow never to use it to take a life, he would subdue his enemy that way if he had to but he always knew when to stop – until he hadn't, until Marcheux had pushed him too near the edge.

Porthos glanced at Aramis who was humming under his breath; the man had pulled him away from the line that Porthos wished never to cross.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't mention it," Aramis said, looked at him with something like confusion in his eyes, "I mean really don't mention it because I have no idea what you're thanking me for,"

Porthos stared; only just noticing the slightly dazed look in the eyes watching him.

"How's the head?" he asked.

"Hard as ever," Aramis shrugged, "can't get rid of the ringing though,"

"The pistol shot," Porthos sat forwards suddenly.

Aramis glanced to the side of his shoulder before he shrugged again.

"Just a graze, no worse than a hairpin's really," he raised the same hand to show the long gash across his palm, "what about you?" he asked, "any injury I should be inquiring about?"

"Just my pride," Porthos breathed out, pushed the words out before he could think them over too much for not being adequate enough, "I apologize Aramis," he said.

There was silence.

It stretched.

Porthos shifted where he sat and when no response came still, he looked to his friend.

"Aramis?"

"I think that metal helmet didn't save my head as good as I assumed," he said.

"It did fine,"

Aramis tipped his head a little to the side, dark eyes watching him with something close to wariness just as they had when Porthos had turned up at his house after the flogging. And something clenched around Porthos' lungs at the thought that it may not be injury confusing the man about his earlier gratitude, just as it wasn't the reason why Aramis didn't understand what the apology was for – something must have gone very wrong in his life to be cautious and confused over such sentiments aimed at him Porthos realized.

"I apologize for judging you too quickly," he said, disgust colouring his voice, "for not giving you a chance to explain yourself, to writing you off as someone you are clearly not. I believed in the worst about you when we had only just met. I've hated people for doing that to me and then I did that to you without even realizing it," he shook his head and looked away again, "I can't believe I've become one of those people, someone like Marchuex,"

"Maybe you got hit over the head in all this and didn't realize it," Aramis said.

Porthos' eyes narrowed when they flashed back towards the other man.

"You have to have a head wound to think you're anything like that man," shrugged the other Musketeer and raised a hand to stop the protest before Porthos could voice it.

Aramis shook his head slowly before massaging the side of his head with his fingers.

"I can tell you've met a lot of people like Marcheux and I've come across some too," he looked back with a smile that didn't fully reach his eyes, "one of my old Captains looked at me once and decided I looked too Spanish, he took a particular pleasure in sending me on missions that wouldn't see me back alive and I took a particular pleasure to come back breathing from those."

Porthos couldn't look away as the other man did, couldn't keep the surprise from his face at the thought of Aramis, the man apparently everyone liked to be on the receiving end of the treatment he had been at the hands ones like Marchuex. He watched as Aramis scratched lightly at his raised knee, dark hair falling over his eyes that didn't turn Porthos' way.

"Nothing I did was right in his eyes and I can't say I tried very hard to please him anyway. He was looking for ways to put me down and I was – I am me," he nodded towards his right leg that was stretched out before him, "some nights I spent entirely on the picket, sometimes longer. Happened enough times for the blisters to bleed through and the peg to break skin, it still aches from time to time," the fingers tapping at the manacle swiped under it, over the skin of his wrist, "he was afraid I would cut myself free with one hand untied so he strung me up with both wrists," he looked up with a dry chuckle but didn't look Porthos' way, "at least it trained my shoulders to take my weight while hanging," he said.

Porthos swallowed hard, tried not to wonder for how long it took to stand on a peg for it to form blisters on the sole of the foot and how many times would that have to have happened for it all to bleed through and let the edge of the peg cut into skin. He pulled his thoughts back when he found Aramis looking at him.

"What I meant to say is that I know about malicious people who take one look at you and decide they know everything there is to know about you," he said, "and you are not one of them Porthos. You didn't judge me by the way I look and I didn't exactly act kindly towards you to begin with."

Weight that he hadn't even been aware that he was carrying rolled off his shoulders and Porthos could tell Aramis noticed it too. A grin touched his face in response to the one on the man across from him and Porthos huffed; breaking into a chuckle when Aramis' stomach rumbled.

"There, there, we will get breakfast soon," the man patted his middle.

And Porthos found his laughter softening at the haste the other man must have been in to reach him to having forgotten his morning meal.

They both looked to the dark corridor at the sound of approaching footsteps and were on their feet by the time the Red Guard appeared followed by Treville and Athos. Porthos' brows arched up when the Captain strode through the prison door as soon as it opened and clasping him by the shoulders looked him up and down. The open concern in the usually stern gaze stole the words from Porthos mind and he felt his face heat up until the older man's grip tightened in silent support.

"None too worse for wear then," Treville nodded as he stepped away.

He turned to look at Aramis and frowned.

"We would have been here earlier if there wasn't the news of a Musketeer attempting to break into prison," he said.

"I was actually trying to break him out,"

Treville turned away from him and handed the paper to the Red Guard behind him.

"Porthos' release orders," he said.

Release orders? He was hoping for a fair trial at most, Porthos looked wide eyed from the paper granting his freedom to his Captain.

"But Marcheux –"

"Is charged with forging the Cardinal's orders and attempting to murder one of the King's Musketeers after falsely accusing and arresting him for desertion," Athos said.

"See how useful it is to labour over the Captain's paperwork Athos?" Aramis grinned at him, "I could let you handle the next batch if you want,"

Treville shook his head.

"I think Athos has done enough for you for a while," he said.

And Porthos watched Aramis' eyes turn wide when Athos handed the paper he carried to the Red Guard as well.

"Release orders for Aramis," he said.

"Now how did you manage that so quickly?"

"The Cardinal simply doesn't want it to be slipped out to the public that his seal of the First Minister was used without his knowledge given the fact that it resides on his finger," Athos said.

"You blackmailed the Cardinal? For me?" Aramis pressed a hand to his heart, "Athos I'm flattered,"

Two pair of blue eyes met and turned to him in unison, Porthos was surprised to find an oddly mutual exasperation among the three of them – and there, below the surface there was something affectionate too. With a smile turning up the corners of his lips Porthos looked away, waited his turn as the Red Guard freed them of the manacles and didn't mind it a least bit when Aramis draped an arm across his shoulders as they headed out.

Because he had a feeling that he was just starting to understand why he needed Aramis as a friend and if that meant he had to be a human stepladder once in a while then it was worth it; in fact, Porthos grinned as Aramis talked to the back of Athos' head, this friendship was worth far more than that.

* * *

 **Still one step to go so TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank you guest reviewers Beeblegirl, Guest and Guest for taking the time to leave me your thoughts!**


	5. Chapter 5

"I hate you,"

"I thought we were friends now,"

"We are but I still hate you," Porthos gasped, tried to curl forwards when Aramis tightened the strip of blue around the sticks supporting his ankle.

With the swelling bad enough for the other Musketeer to have to slice his boot, there was no telling if it was just a sprain or a cracked bone in their somewhere. But Porthos could swear on all that he held dear that it hurt. Aramis looped the strip of his sash a few more times and pulled the ends tight.

"Stop that!"

"It needs support," Aramis said and tied the ends once, twice before he checked the sticks again and then sat back on his heels.

Porthos let his head drop back against the tree, blinked against the beads of sweat rolling down his face and tried to slow his breathing; the blurry sky of the winter morning came into view slowly. His gaze slid sideways when he felt movement and he saw Aramis rummaging in the saddlebag and thanked their luck that they had managed to get away with it, the small locked box they had been sent to collect from the Comte was in there and Porthos didn't want to think about the problem of losing it would have been on top of their current predicament.

He sat up with a jolt when Aramis produced a spool of thread with a wicked looking needle stuck in it.

"You come near me with that thing and I will break your nose,"

"The women of Paris will never forgive you for that," Aramis smirked.

"Don't care," he eyed the man threading the needle, "I won't have you sticking that thing in my flesh,"

"And I suppose bleeding to death would be a better option?"

Despite the words the brown eyes that held his gaze held no humour, there was compassion there that Porthos still marveled over how he had overlooked it until only recently, and under it there was touch of worry; it flared when Aramis glanced at the long deep gash staining the cloth tied around it. Porthos followed his line of sight and silently cursed his mistake. He had made the error of not making sure that the downed bandit was down for good and had paid with a dagger carving the back of his leg from just up his ankle to almost the back of his knee.

That really, really hurt.

Porthos looked to the small silver flask Aramis had brought out as well and reached for it.

"Gimme that,"

"No,"

"I need to take the edge off before you stick that needle in me,"

"It's too strong," Aramis said, "it'll burn your throat down to your gut,"

As if to prove his point the strong sharp smell hit the air as soon as Aramis wet the strip of linen in his other hand with the contents of the flask. Porthos wrinkled his nose and looked away from him as he wiped the needle and thread with the cloth he had just dampened.

"Why don't you have wine in there?" Porthos asked.

"Because I'm not Athos," Aramis tipped his head with a smirk, "but I do have willow bark,"

" 'm not a goat,"

"And that's not a leaf,"

"Still not chewing on it," he shook his head.

Stopped abruptly when the world swam before him and his gut clenched in the familiar need to throw up. It was blood loss he could tell and dared not glance down at the wound on his leg, the one that didn't have sticks and strips bound to the ankle but a rag that was red and soaked through. He stiffened when Aramis pulled open the bindings and the cold afternoon air hit the sliced flesh. He tried to ignore the light touch that sent jolts of pain up his leg and the pungent smell that followed the sound of the flask opening again.

"This will hurt," Aramis said.

Porthos pressed his head back against the tree and rolled his eyes.

"Surprise, surprise," he murmured.

Clenched his jaw shut when the wet cloth settled over the wound and fire sparked in his leg, burned in his blood and left him breathing in thick gulps of air. Porthos refused to cast a glance at the wound Aramis wiped clean but he couldn't stop a hiss from escaping past his teeth when his friend pressed the cloth a little harder.

He glared at the bent head; was sure that Aramis felt his gaze and was simply ignoring it.

"Are you going to pass out?" Aramis asked, but didn't look up from the wound that was still bleeding sluggishly.

" 'Course not,"

"People usually do at this point," Aramis picked up the needle and glanced up with a smirk that was oddly apologetic, "it would be a lot easier for the both of us if you did,"

Porthos swallowed thickly, the hot wet pain of the wound in his leg only rivaled the pulsing jab in his other ankle.

"I'm not passing out,"

"I could always knock you out," the needle pierced his skin and Porthos looked away, focused instead on Aramis' voice as the man went on, "one well placed punch and it's sweet oblivion for you. I did that with Marsac once. He wasn't even injured to tell you the truth, just being stubborn. He was going on and on about something he thought I'd done wrong and this bandit I was trying to stitch close the wounds for kept swearing up a storm, and there was the dog whose leg I'd splinted that kept wriggling into my side and my ear on Marsac's side wouldn't quit ringing. I think I was seeing double by then and when Marsac pulled out his pistol I just took a swing. He never said which one of us he intended to put out of misery and I never asked. You think I should have?"

"I know which one us I would shoot right now,"

"I'm sensing a little hostility here,"

"I'm sure there's a lot more of it if you would pay attention,"

"Now why would I do that?" Aramis grinned as he glanced up at him, blood slick fingers pausing slightly as the thread tugged a bit in his flesh and Porthos tried not to throw up at the feeling.

"Anyways, Marsac went down like he had just opened a bundle of the regiment's used socks and seeing that silenced the bandit too. Marsac swears he still has a loose tooth from that but he never takes me up on my offer of knocking that out for good," Aramis shrugged and wiped his hands on the wet rag by his knee, "better in pain once than to keep on suffering I'd say, but he never listens."

"A wise choice," Porthos breathed out, "listening to you is a task for eternity,"

"Are you implying something mon ami?"

"I'm saying you could talk a dead man into walking away in search of peace," he said, glanced down at the stitched and bandaged wound on his leg and felt his brows rise, "you're done?"

"You sound surprised," Aramis grinned, "was it my precise gentle touch or my dulcet tones that took away the pain of it?"

"I think it was the rising irritation that I had to keep in check," Porthos rolled his eyes.

Refused to let the man know that it was likely both of those that had helped and wondered if the medics in his pasts had been ill trained or just not bothered by the patient suffering under their hands. Either way this was the least painful stitching he had been forced into Porthos mused quietly as he watched the other Musketeer collect and put away his belongings. Aramis checked his pistols and taking to his feet he looked up at the sky before glancing back the way they had come.

"Our horses?" Porthos asked.

"On their way to the garrison if those men didn't steal them,"

Porthos rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, they had escaped into the forest when there didn't seem like an end to the bandits who had ambushed them. Taking out as many men as he could he had followed Aramis deeper into the thicket until the shouts and footfalls grew muffled and the shots fired at them had tapered off. Looking to the man peering at the way they had come Porthos could read the urgency in the quick fingers preparing the pistols even though Aramis stood relaxed, showing nor haste or fear in his stance.

"How far?" Porthos asked.

"Far enough,"

"Riding?"

"An unwise decision on their part," Aramis tucked his pistols in his belt and pulled the saddlebag's strap over his head to settle it on his other side, "with the trees grown this close together we'll be quicker on foot,"

Glancing at his injuries Porthos wondered if he could be as quick as they needed to be. Those bandits clearly were not the highway riff-raff; they were well armed and almost disciplined. And here he was stuck at the base of a tree because he hadn't seen where he was going. With the rush of the battle still in his veins he hadn't felt the pain of his wound as they had hastened to retreat and just as his front foot had sunk into the ground before him his other leg had given away. The mix of surprise and pain had done the rest. Still, Porthos berated himself silently; he should have been paying attention.

"I blame the rabbits," Aramis said, grinned when their gazes met, "they should really plan this whole burrowing into the ground business. At least set up a sign if they insist upon digging holes in the forest floor."

Porthos couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips even as he shook his head.

"Well they wouldn't forget this mistake now,"

"Of course," Aramis said, "It's rather hard to disregard a giant foot when it breaks through your roof,"

Porthos glanced at the said foot and grimaced, wondered if it was still swelling because the bindings hadn't felt that tight at the start of this. And wincing as his damaged ankle dragged over the forest floor Porthos pressed back against the tree trunk forcing himself up onto his feet. Teeth clenched tight behind pursed lips he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and then back again before he cursed and nearly slid back down to the floor.

But arms suddenly wrapped around him and held him up; as his legs throbbed in a merciless beat, his gut churned and the cutting and stabbing pain coiled tight around his limbs. Porthos held on to the arm propping him up, finger nails digging deeper in the leather sleeve in an effort to counter the onslaught of pain. He felt rather than saw Aramis ease him down and bit off a gasp when the gash on his leg protested vehemently against bending his knee.

They stopped. Somewhere between sitting and standing Porthos just stopped, waited out the waves of pain crashing into him until they lost some of their strength and his roiling gut eased back to a simmer.

"Better?"

The word was spoken too close to his ear.

And opening his eyes that he didn't remember closing Porthos stiffened at finding himself in more or less an embrace. It wasn't that he didn't like being touched, he had had friends growing up who were his family in a way and he had lovers after, he didn't mind the arms around him. No, it was just odd to find someone willing to hold him up when he couldn't himself; no one had bothered with helping him limp along during his time with Marchuex's men on the odd occasion he had needed it and injury or sickness at the Court meant you were simply left alone, under some form of shelter if you were lucky and provided with bits of food by your friends if you were very lucky, which he had been.

"Porthos?"

"You can let go,"

"And let you collapse on your wound?" Aramis huffed, "don't think so,"

"It's alright," he patted the shoulder under his chin and tried to push away, "I'll be fine,"

He didn't need this; he didn't want this help lest he come to expect it.

"Ease your leg out straight," Aramis didn't let him go, "the one with the stitches, let it slide out straight before you,"

He followed the calm instructions, the gentle shift of the grasp that wouldn't let him hurry and stoke the ache in his wounds again and Porthos found his eyes stinging in a way that had nothing to do with the pain he was in. The unasked for kindness prickled behind his eyelids and Porthos let his chin drop to his chest when the ground finally met him. Pinching the corner of his eyes he cleared the moisture gathered there, it was the pain he told himself and the reality that he was suddenly helpless that was all.

"You do know that both your legs are injured right?" Aramis asked.

And just like that his irritation stirred. He couldn't stand let alone walk, he was done for this assignment and he didn't need the other Musketeer rubbing it in.

"I mean you didn't just forget that did you?"

"How can I when you keep reminding me?" Porthos glared.

"I wouldn't if you didn't need it," Aramis shrugged from where he crouched before him, "and that was a spectacularly foolish move."

"I had to try,"

"It's almost a day's ride back, longer if we're walking," Aramis shook his head, "and you can't walk Porthos,"

"I know," it left him in a growl.

Wounded and trapped, like a snared animal he thought. Porthos patted his side and pulling out his pistol he snagged the pouch of gunpowder from his belt as well; if he was going to be captured than he would go fighting. Shifting and hitching his wounded legs he managed to turn around enough to press his shoulder to the tree trunk and get a better look at the way they had come; if he listened closely he could hear the horse hooves thumping over the forest floor in the distance.

Looking back at the Musketeer watching him with his head tilted slightly to the side Porthos offered him a smirk.

"What are you waiting for? Go," he said.

* * *

So that was what this was, a preparation for a last stand, a settling in for a final battle. Aramis felt his teeth clench, eyes narrowing slightly as he pulled in a steady breath and held it before letting out slowly; because this was not happening. Maybe Porthos expected him to leave, maybe he had a good reason to come to that conclusion because maybe this had happened to him more times than Aramis wanted to know, but he was not leaving a man, a Musketeer, his friend behind.

"Aramis,"

"What?"

"I said –"

"I heard what you said and I don't like it, I don't agree with it. I'm not doing it." he shook his head as he took to his feet.

"Aramis listen –"

"No, you don't have a say in this because I deem it's the blood loss talking. You're delirious and in no condition to make decisions,"

"I'm not –"

"Yes you are, now shush and let me think," he glanced around for some inspiration, ignored the steady beat of hooves growing louder even as he searched their surrounding for a good hiding spot. Barren trees and hard packed ground littered with twigs greeted him.

"I'm not planning on dying today if I can help it," the big man sounded amused.

"Good to know,"

Aramis wondered if he could draw the bandits away.

"You leave and deliver that box, then come back with reinforcements," Porthos said.

Aramis looked around the small clearing, they would come after a wounded Porthos sitting there and he could wait atop a tree to pick them out. Shaking his head he crouched back before Porthos as the sound of horses coming their way grew louder.

"They're already too close and know that there are two of us, even if I try to draw them away some of them could still come and find you. I could wait in the trees but there's no cover, and even if I do manage to stay out of sight and shoot them down as they come for you, I still wouldn't be able to take down all of them. They're too many, I won't be able to prepare the pistols that fast," Aramis shrugged and resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder to the nearing enemy, "there isn't another way; we're leaving and I'm taking you with me," he said.

"In case you missed it, I can't walk,"

Aramis grinned.

"But I can do that for the both of us," he said.

And saw it dawn on his friend slowly, the dark eyes widening, mouth falling open slightly before the brows pulled together in a scowl. Porthos shook his head, quick and sharp.

"No, that's never happening,"

"Mon ami –,"

"You are not carrying me," Porthos glared at him.

The thump-thump-thump of the nearing bandits grew clearer; they could hear the voices now even if indecipherable. Dark eyes held dark, furious met stubborn.

"Just leave," Porthos turned away.

Aramis flopped down onto the floor, crossing his legs as he sat down more comfortably. He saw Porthos' jaw twitch and mused that he could hear the man ground his teeth. He had spent enough marches on one good foot and sheer obstinacy while his right foot had bled in his boot to understand the disgusted reluctance that Porthos held for this plan. He listened to the words in the air that were muffled by distance but if he listened closely Aramis was certain he could work out what the men were saying, his brows rose slightly as the unmistakable echo of dogs barking reached them. Dark eyes slid in a sideways glare and Aramis smiled back; the quicker his friend agreed the better start they'd have.

"Leave Aramis,"

"Not without you,"

"Your duty is to the mission, to get that box safely to Paris,"

But he had it all planned out about how he was going to keep that box safe and Aramis pulled it out from the saddle bag before looking around them for a suitable spot.

"I'll burry it somewhere only I know and just won't talk," he shrugged as he eyed a reasonable looking burying point amidst the bunch of smooth looking rocks by those trees in the distance, "I mean I will talk, obviously, and I might scream too if those men know how to really make a man talk. But I won't talk about where I've hid it; and you won't either because you won't know;" he grinned and took to his feet, dusting off his breeches, "by then the Captain might have sent someone to see if we'd been waylaid by some village beauty. It only happened once you know. But the man never lets me forget it. And how was I to know that she had a husband and a lover, both of them once soldiers too. But she was a lady of passion," he smiled and moved away, shrugging at the part irritation part anxiety in Porthos' eyes that followed him, "don't look at me like that, we were on a schedule after all, it was just a kiss. And suddenly I was on the dangerous end of too many pistols. It worked out in the end but we would have been along much sooner if Marsac hadn't drank half the tavern dry and was any help."

He looked around for a stick to dig with and decided to just snap it from one of the many dry branches around.

"Aramis..."

He stopped halfway from the spot he had chosen to bury the box in and turned around with a raised eyebrow. Porthos' jaw unclenched as he breathed through his nose, dark eyes looked to him as the injured Musketeer shrugged.

"You won't be able to," Porthos said.

Aramis tucked the box back in the saddle bag and made his way to his friend, something aching in him to know that the man was simply resigned to be abandoned.

"Well you are a bit too full of yourself," Aramis grinned, "but I think I can manage,"

Porthos drew a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the voices and snarls approaching them even as they talked. Aramis refused to glance that way, yes there was trouble coming their way, yes the enemy was almost at the door but he would rather face them at his friend's side instead of leaving the man behind.

"Alright," Porthos gave a sharp nod.

Crouching again but this time facing away from his friend Aramis helped maneuver the injured legs on either side of his waist and adjusted Porthos' arms that wrapped around his shoulders. He could hear the dogs in the cold dried underbrush, could smell the horses too and he wondered if the bandits could see them as he heaved up onto his feet. The earth rocked under him and he grabbed his balance against a tree, the man on his back remained silent, trusting his decision, his stubbornness and Aramis grit his teeth in a silent vow to not let him down. Stepping away from the tree his balance wobbled again and for a second he was sure that he would either tip back or pitch forwards; but then a step and then another and another after.

Using the push of the weight at his back Aramis broke into a run. The ground rolled under his feet, slipped and tripped under his boots as he set into a steady quick pace of his controlled stumbles. Weaving among the trees he moved deeper into the forest and away from the road, forgoing the shorter path that he knew would bring their enemies closer to them faster. He needed to stretch the distance between them and he needed to do it fast; their enemy may fall behind but pistol shots could fly ahead of the bandits and sight had a wider range. Blinking against the sweat trailing into his eyes Aramis moved deeper into the thicket. The world around them grew darker as the web of dried branches above thickened and the chill of the forest burned at the back of his throat. As the beat of his own heart grew louder in his ears the sound of those giving chase ebbed into the distance. They muffled further and the clatter of horses softened and the crunch of dried twigs under his rapid footfalls took its place.

Aramis slowed a little even as he drew an imaginary arch in his mind that would lead him back to the road.

"You should rest,"

"I will when I need it," his voice came out breathless.

It reminded him of the tightness in his chest, of the stiffness in his ribs that wouldn't let him pull in a full breath. Aramis slowed further, forced himself to drag in deeper breaths that pushed past the arms tightened around his shoulder and struggled to find space with his own arms locked under Porthos' knees at his sides.

The air burned in his nose and his eyes watered.

"You're heading back towards the road," Porthos said.

"They're using dogs that would follow our trail step for step," he slowed even more and came to a stop leaning against a tree, "means they wouldn't be using their mind and by the time they'll realize we've walked in an arch we'd have crossed the road."

Because the highway curved ahead and they would have to break from what little cover the barren trees provided in order to stay on the path to Paris; the further their enemies were from them at that point the better.

"Maybe you should leave me here," Porthos said, "I –"

Aramis pushed away from the tree and began walking, adjusted his grip under Porthos' knees that left the other man shifting for a better hold as well.

"I was saying that you can't carry me back all the way,"

"Let's decide about that at the end of this, shall we?"

"Damn it Aramis I'm heavy and you're not –" Porthos' voice softened, "you're not that strong,"

"The thing about strength my friend, is that it stems from purpose," he glanced back with a smile, "and bringing you back home is a strong enough purpose for me,"

Porthos didn't reply.

"Although it might be a good idea if you would consider not volunteering for Serge's attempts at pastries in the future," Aramis added and grinned when Porthos snorted, he could feel the other Musketeer relax slightly.

"Someone has to provide him with honest judgment," Porthos said.

"It's hardly useful if you sing praise of every baked good,"

"Not my fault the man is talented,"

"And much too possessive of his kitchen," Aramis shook his head slightly but stopped when the gesture threatened to veer him off track, "I've seen him escort the Captain back out over the threshold at the end of a spoon. Of course it was all a very dignified affair; no uniform was harmed but the sauce held its post at the end of the ladle, giving no quarter."

Porthos chuckled.

And Aramis felt a smile touch his lips, an odd sense of pride unfurling in his chest at the small victory.

"Maeve is the only one Serge had ever invited into his kitchen," he went on, breathed in tandem with his steps, "they spent hours pointing out all the short comings of youth and the possible ways to set us straight; nearly half the regiment got acquainted with Maeve's broom that afternoon while Serge cackled at our misery. Romance was in the air mon ami,"

"Is that how you met? She is Serge's friend?"

"No and yes," he resisted the urge to wipe his sleeve over his face, with his arms tucked under Porthos' legs he couldn't risk the man pain just to clear the sweat from his forehead, "They are friends now but I brought her with me to the garrison that morning. Constance introduced me to her one day and I tell you Porthos, it was love at first sight,"

"So you bought her a house?"

"Oh I'd bought that before we met," it slipped out before he could realize what he was saying.

As the road came into view Aramis picked up his pace and hoped that his friend wouldn't notice it as anything other than the need to escape the men pursuing them.

"So there was another woman," it was part teasing part curious and entirely friendly in a way Porthos hadn't been with him ever before.

"Yes there was,"

"You loved a woman enough to buy a house for the two of you?"

"I did," he swallowed thickly and it had nothing to do with the raging thirst drying his throat, but everything with that day in one of the more notorious streets of Paris.

Aramis blinked away the burning in his gaze, refused to consider if it was the sweat or something else entirely that prickled and blurred his sight. Porthos was silent at his back, not awkward like he had been at the start of this but almost understanding and Aramis realized the man was respecting the line where ever he wished to draw it.

"My mother," Aramis breathed out, couldn't dwell upon why he was confessing this, "I had bought the house for her but she was murdered before I could –"

That day, the red splashes past her lips, the hitch in her breath and the blankness in her eyes flashed in his mind and Aramis tasted blood. Swiping his tongue over the inside of his lip he ignored the sting of where he had bit through and forced the memories back, cleared away their hold on his voice when he spoke next.

"I never even told the Captain. He assumed it was for some mistress I was trying to impress,"

"Aramis –"

"Hardly an inspiring deduction on his part though," he went on, slowing slightly as they neared the road, "I am after all Aramis of the King's Musketeer, the most infamous libertine of Paris."

* * *

The words were almost cheerful, the tone smug and pitched in a flourish only this man could manage and his voice was smooth, too smooth; Porthos wondered why he had ever believed the arrogance it boasted.

" 'Mis?"

"Hmmm?"

"Thank you for telling me,"

And that brought the other man to a complete stop. The road was before them and there wasn't any sign of travelers as they had expected given the stretch of winter; but Porthos knew that they hadn't stopped to hope for some form of help coming from either way. He waited in the silence that was only broken by his friend's breathing, waited with his own breath trapped in the back of his throat until Aramis gave a slow nod and began walking again.

"They'll be heading this way now," he said.

They crossed the curve of the dirt path over to the trees on the other side. Porthos bit back a hiss as the man carrying him staggered down the slight incline and held his breath until Aramis found a smoother pace. Swallowing back the need to gasp Porthos refused to lower his head, he was sure the constant movement would have him throwing up if he did. Aramis trudged along, his steps sinking deep into the muddy ground where the rainwater from the previous night hadn't dried. In the pale afternoon sunlight Porthos looked back to the trail they were leaving and knew the hounds wouldn't be needed to track them down. It was not a matter of how but when the enemy would be upon them; and his added weight was shrinking the time they had to escape, he was slowing down his friend.

"What do you think is in the box?" Aramis asked suddenly.

Porthos blinked rapidly.

"Letters?" he guessed.

"They have paper for that,"

"Jewels?" Porthos offered.

"They'd have sent more men as an escort if they were important," Aramis spoke between breaths, "a small necklace perhaps, or maybe one big diamond."

"Big enough to have about twenty men chasing us for it,"

"Well I've had people chasing me for less," Aramis said.

And Porthos felt what would have been a shrug if his weight hadn't been on the other man's shoulders. Refusing to acknowledge the throbbing in his ankle and the burning in the stitches that held his leg together he forced his mind to stay with the conversation.

"Happened with me too," Porthos said, "had a man and his brother and his two sons chase me through the streets of Paris over an apple once,"

The words came easily; it was their significance that stuck as a lump in his throat. In all his years as a soldier he had never found himself speaking of his life at the Court, couldn't imagine it happening much less this naturally. But it was only because Aramis would know already of his origins Porthos assured himself; the man knew everything that the Captain did and his Captains had always known where he came from.

"Was it their last one?" Aramis asked.

And Porthos chuckled.

"They had a barrelful; of course Flea and Charon relieved him of some more while the entire party was running after me," he said.

Aramis stopped by a tree, his shoulder pressed against it as he leaned his weight slightly forwards; Porthos could feel the ribs pressed to his front strain to pull in a deeper breath. His friend was soaked through with sweat despite the cold weather and as much as he wanted to tell the other man to set him down, he held his peace lest it would break the reprieve his friend had allowed himself. But it was only a few steadier breaths later that Aramis pushed away from the support and stumbled on. Worry tightened in his gut as Porthos glanced back the way they had come, the shadows were stretching now as the washed out sun had began its descent in the sky and as far as he could judge they were still ways away from Paris. And he was the reason that even Aramis might not be able to make it back to the garrison, Porthos was sure of it.

"I'm guessing that was the plan," said Aramis.

"What?"

"The apples,"

Porthos shook his head slightly; couldn't decide what he found more amusing, the way that his friend couldn't stay quiet when he clearly had no breath to spare or the topic of their conversation.

"Be honest," Aramis cleared his throat, "did you cross your eyes and stick your tongue out at him?"

Porthos grinned; he had expected sympathy if not scorn, awkward silence if not embarrassed stammers but he had never imagined to come across a friend who would accept his past this way. And he was suddenly glad that Aramis couldn't see his face, couldn't witness the way his grin softened into a fond smile.

"Let's just say I knew he was the most irritable fellow in the market," he said.

"Clearly,"

"We were young, needed to work together to survive," he said and years after he had walked out of their he could still smell the grime in the streets even now, could feel the dilapidated buildings and their rickety wooden walkways leaning over the streets he had called his home, "my father left us there, my mother and I. She died when I was five," he said.

"I want to be there if you ever meet your father again,"

Porthos felt his brows reach his hair line.

"Why?"

"To deliver a fist to his jaw or a pat on the back, depending on the explanation he gives,"

The nearly gasping reply hinted no mockery and Porthos felt his eyes prickle, felt something settle in him that hadn't in years, the restlessness at his core that he hadn't realized was there soothed and he cleared the sudden lump that formed in his throat. It was then that he heard it; the beat against the ground and distant barks.

" 'Mis?"

"I heard it,"

As his friend picked up pace Porthos looked around at the trees surrounding them, they were farther apart than they had been on the other side of the road and the ground underfoot was soft if the way Aramis' steps threatened to slip under him was any clue.

"I could hide here somewhere, we could –"

"We're going home Porthos," Aramis nearly growled, "and we're going home together,"

* * *

He shouldn't have slowed down.

He should have known he had slowed down. Biting back his frustration Aramis forced his steps into a run, he should have been paying attention; he should have calculated how far off the enemy was. And now he was not only risking his life but his friend's as well, it was that fear more than anything else that pushed his legs to move faster. Aramis hurtled through the sparse trees, his thoughts racing to find a way to throw their pursuers off their trail if only for a while.

And then it hit him.

With enough force to bring him to a sliding halt.

"What –?"

"My bag, the saddlebag," Aramis gasped, "can you reach inside it?"

He felt Porthos shift on his back and as his friend reached for the bag at his side he leaned a shoulder the other way against a tree, partly to keep his balance and mostly to just stop the waver in his sight. It wasn't much help given the way his legs trembled. His stomach roiled and Aramis swallowed back the sour taste that rose to his dry throat.

"What am I looking for?"

"The flask," he held back the urge to throw up, "the one I used to clean your wound with,"

"I got it,"

Aramis eyed the silver flask that Porthos brought before his face, it was only halfway full he knew that but it would have to do. He made to reach for it but stopped when a stabbing pain travelled from his shoulders down to his elbows that were locked under Porthos' knees. Clenching his jaw shut he pulled in a deep breath.

"Pour it over my boots," Aramis said.

And was thankful when his friend complied without questions. Pressing his shoulder to the tree at his side he lifted one foot at a time and shook it gently, hoped that the liquid spread to the soles of his boots completely before he pushed away from the support. Tottering from one tree to the next, he looped around the nearest few then around the ones farther away, crossing over and over the light impressions that his steps left in the cold ground. He hoped that the various boot prints would confuse the men after them once the scent of the spirit he had doused his boots in had repelled the dogs. Breathing heavily Aramis smacked into a tree trunk and stopped; gulping air he bent forwards even as he locked his knees when Porthos' weight on his back threatened to topple him forwards. He could feel Porthos tense, could tell the man was about to speak.

"If you tell me to leave you here one more time I will drop you Porthos. And I will drag you after me by that possibly broken ankle," he said and wasn't surprised when the other man huffed and held his silence.

Aramis gathered his strength before he straightened and moved on. He broke away from the wide loops he had walked in as the voices drawing nearer became distinct. It wasn't enough, he knew that, but it was all that he had the strength for and all the time they had to spare. As the evening fell deep and fast around them Aramis hoped it was enough to allow them to slip away unseen from the enemy that much too close at his heels. But the darkness wasn't his friend, it breathed and blurred around him, clung to him like the sweat that ran in rivulets down his neck. Setting into a light jog Aramis cleared his throat, focused on the stiff silence of his friend instead of the taut feeling around his ribs.

"Don't tell me you've fallen asleep back there," he said.

"I think your plan worked," Porthos' voice was hushed and tight.

"No need to be surprised mon ami," he grinned and winced when it pulled at his cracked lips, "my plans always work,"

"Like the one to break me out of prison or the one where you pretended to be the Captain?"

"You're never going to forgive me that will you?" he kept his voice light.

Hoped that the touch of amusement he had heard in his friend's voice would win out over the hint of irritation that had been there too. But if it came down to it he decided he would rather have Porthos mad at him than worried over being a burden, or worst lost in the agony of his wounds.

"Why did you do it?" Porthos asked.

And Aramis knew he wasn't talking about the attempt to help him escape from behind bars. He knew what Porthos wanted to know and it was the one thing he didn't want to talk about at the moment, not when he was pulling on his last reserves to keep moving. He didn't want to dwell upon his weakness when he needed to focus on his strength.

" 'Mis? You alright?"

The words were steeped in concern and heavy with guilt. Even without the man saying it out loud Aramis could tell that his friend was holding himself responsible for their problems, it was the way that Porthos went quiet that told him that the other Musketeer was finding it hard to forgive himself the injuries he had and Aramis felt a soft smile touch his lips, because somehow he couldn't expect anything else from Porthos given their situation. And yet Porthos was trusting him with what he felt was his weakness Aramis reminded himself.

"I didn't hear you coming that morning and you saw," he said.

"Saw what?"

Aramis peered into the darkness and tried not to groan at the honest confusion, he didn't want to spell it out for the man.

"The spectacles," he ground out.

"What about them?"

"You saw Porthos, you saw me wearing them," he nearly slipped, the toes of his boots digging in the soil to catch his balance, "you saw me wearing those things and you weren't supposed to, no one's supposed to know."

"The Captain knows?"

"He was the only one before you came along," Aramis said, tried to shift Porthos' weight slightly but gave up when his arms refused to listen to his orders, "I'm the best shot in the regiment, men depend on that. They trust me to watch their backs and I can't have them doubting that."

"Never saw you using one while taking a shot,"

"Because I don't need it then," he didn't want to note how childish his voice sounded, "It's the details up close that blur and leave a headache after a while,"

"And you decided to make a fool out of me for walking in on that secret?"

"Wasn't just that," he smiled in the darkness before drawing his tongue over his stinging lips, "you were grim and guarded, I couldn't resist,"

Porthos snorted.

"In case you're worried I haven't told anyone about your secret," he said.

"Wouldn't expect you to," Aramis told him.

Tried not to worry over how thin the air suddenly felt. He slowed down, refused to acknowledge the trembling that ran through his limbs and tried instead to calm his breathing. Resisted the urge to stop and calm his heart as well that had been thudding faster than his steps ever had been that morning; his chest felt tight. He cleared his throat, cleared it again when the desire to cough scratched at the back of it.

" 'Mis?"

He couldn't allow that, couldn't bear to listen to that pained remorse, Aramis refused to let his friend slip into that.

"It wasn't always like that," he breathed out, "happened later," he breathed in, "got too close to," held his breath to keep from gasping before letting it go, "an exploding ship," he pulled in a breath, "head wound, splinters, near drowning," he breathed out, "never knew which one did it,"

Porthos was quiet, Aramis could feel the worry thrumming in that silence. Blinking against the blur in his sight he peered at the soft glow he hadn't noticed; felt the chilly breeze rustle around the grass he had stepped into. The trees were behind them, the light of the waning moon shone over the expanse and beyond that loomed Paris. His eyes stung at the sight that afforded him a fresh wave of strength. He straightened slightly.

"Treville fished me out," Aramis said, "so he knows,"

"Aramis?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you hear that?"

He frowned.

The only sound loud in his ears was the beat of his own blood in his veins. But then it was there, muffled by the slight wind that blew in his face, the sound of tired horses and eager dogs. And Aramis stumbled; no, no, no snarled his mind, they had come this far it couldn't be for nothing. He was not going to let them be kept now, pulling at the strength he didn't know he had Aramis broke into a run again. Stumbling, tripping, staggering, he moved on, ignored the grunts that escaped Porthos' control as his friend's wounds jostled in his hurry to get away.

And then the air shattered with a volley of shots.

Aramis ran, pushed to put as much distance as he could between them and the shots that would hit the man at his back, his friend. He ran as the clatter of hooves grew louder, as more shots filled the air, as the ground lurched and rolled under his feet, he ran as the world faded into a thick blur around him.

"Aramis? 'Mis look!"

But he couldn't, he didn't have the time, he needed to get them to safety, they were too exposed in this field.

"Aramis stop," Porthos' voice was loud, "stop, just look,"

The voice was close to his ear, it didn't fade in the shots that were still piercing the air around them.

"Aramis," it was a gasp, " 'Mis please,"

 _Please don't let him be hit, please don't let him be shot_.

"Hey, just stop, stop Aramis,"

More shots echoed out.

The arms that had held on to him in need of support up till then shifted their grip, wrapped around him in a grasp both firm and snug, oddly comforting Aramis thought. He slowed. Felt something pressed to the side of his head, felt the bristle against his temple and then he heard it; Porthos' voice close to his ear.

"Shh... 'Mis, stop, listen to me please,"

"P'ths?" he gasped. "hit? Y're hit?"

"No, no I wasn't hit; you with me?"

"What?" he couldn't catch a breath, he still moved ahead, " 'appnd?"

"Look," Porthos' voice was thick, "look, the Musketeers,"

He nearly stopped at the words; caught himself before he could fall flat on his face at the sudden halt and stared at the riders ahead. The world snapped back around him, the shots echoing out matched the flares he could see in the distance.

"They're here," Porthos said, "they're firing back,"

"How?" he slowed further, pulled in air that refused to come, "how – they?"

"Look,"

He did, he saw the riders that broke away from the line, saw them galloping up to them. Saw Athos in the lead. Aramis was sure he would have cried if he had the strength for it, but all he could manage was to move, move on to meet Athos who dismounted quickly.

"Aramis, Porthos," wide blue eyes met his own as the man crossed the distance between them, Marsac and Big Pierre at his heels, "are you –"

"Wounded," Aramis stopped, "Porthos,"

Athos reached out and grasped his shoulder. Aramis traced the arm to the hand, wondered if he was imagining it because Athos wouldn't do that, Athos didn't like being touched and he never initiated it and Aramis respected that, they were friends after all, Athos had said so.

"Aramis?"

Maybe in not so many words but Athos had implied they were friends.

"Aramis?"

He looked to the face creased with worry and blinked, wondered what could have happened to shift the usually impassive expression.

"Porthos," he realized, winced when the name scratched at his throat, "he's, Athos he's –"

"We've got him,"

Aramis looked to the side so fast it left his world spinning. He squinted at Marsac before looking to his other side where Big Pierre stood.

"It's alright Aramis," Athos was saying, "you can let him go,"

"What?" there was a fog in his mind, "Athos he's –"

"Fine, I'm fine," Porthos growled, "you can set me down 'Mis,"

He stared down, tried to understand what he was supposed to do. And then the hand on his shoulder dropped down to his own, he didn't look up as Athos gently guided his arms out from where they were threaded under Porthos' legs. The big man hissed and that jolted through the haze clinging to his mind. Aramis turned around in time to catch the grimace on Porthos' face as the men on either side of him lowered him to the ground. Aramis' eyes drew to the gash he had stitched up and he wondered if he was imagining the slick sheen there.

"I'm fine 'Mis," Porthos said.

"You're not," Aramis turned to Athos, "needs new stitches," he said.

"We'll take him to the garrison," Big Pierre said as he guided his horse closer.

Between him and Marsac they had Porthos in the saddle easily and Aramis moved to help keep him there. But the grasp on his arm held him back and he looked up to meet Marsac's gaze.

"I'll sit with him," he said, "I'm lighter than Big Pierre so we wouldn't slow the horse that much."

"He needs –"

"I know," his friend's grasp tightened on his arm, "I'll take care of him for you," Marsac said.

Aramis watched him turn away and swing up on the horse behind Porthos, watched him take the reins with one hand, keeping Porthos in the saddle with his other. He watched as the horse turned and moved away, he watched his departing friends until he couldn't separate them from the darkness of the night. His arms felt leaden and empty at the same time, a weight settled on him even though it felt like he was floating.

"He's safe Aramis," Athos stepped up to his side.

Aramis turned to him, he smiled, and then his legs folded. Pain spread like chilled fire from his shins, to his back to his shoulders and around his ribs, freezing his breath in his chest. He didn't feel the impact of his knees against the ground, didn't feel Athos' arms around him, didn't feel his forehead dropping onto the man's shoulder; Aramis never heard Athos' voice half pleading half panicked.

There was only pain.

* * *

 **TBC, because this needs a conclusion even thought it probably won't be as long as this one.**

 **Thank you all who read, favorite, follow and review this story. Thank You guest reviewers: Thimble and Guest.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: finally got this done. I apologize to the people waiting so long for it and you have my gratitude for doing so. Sincerely hoping the ending won't disappoint. I might one day add a prequel and a sequel but so far they are only vague ideas and nothing more.**

 **Thank you so much for your patience.**

* * *

He swallowed thickly, pressed his lips close and jaw clenched shut as the motion of the horse under him threatened to break through his control in a rush of bile. It helped that his companion didn't seek to break the silence between them but the quiet left him adrift in a way he hadn't expected, narrowed his world into a blur of pain and worry for the man he had left behind. Guilt churned in his gut, concern roiled and filled any empty space that remained because he had left him, left Aramis behind when the man had refused to abandon him.

"Don't fall unconscious on me now. We're almost there," Marsac's voice cut through the haze.

The grip across his front held firm as they crossed through the gates of the city but Porthos refused to sink into the support at his back. If it was Aramis then you would have the voice in his head smirked much like the man in question. And Porthos felt a smile touch his face even as worry sparked afresh in his heart. He shouldn't have left him like that.

But his thoughts lurched to a stop as Marsac pulled the reins and Porthos hissed as their horse slowed abruptly.

"You! Henri. What are you doing here at this hour?"

Blinking in the dimly lit night around him Porthos watched the boy come closer as the Musketeer behind him turned their horse halfway.

"Serge sent me out to –"

"Never mind;" Marsac cut him off, "go to the apothecary and ask for Monsieur Navin. Bring him to the garrison," he said.

He didn't wait for the boy to reply and turning his horse back around set it at a quick pace towards the garrison. Porthos shifted slightly and grimaced for his efforts.

"Are they following us?" he asked.

"I'm sure they are,"

"He didn't look good," he spoke more to himself than the man at his back, "Aramis didn't –"

"He'll be fine. Athos would see to that,"

"I thought you were his friend,"

"I am," Marsac said.

He guided the horse into the garrison yard before dismounting, one hand on Porthos' knee to keep him steady in the saddle. Porthos was about the protest against such measures when the sound of boots against the wooden stairs had him glancing up. Captain Treville looked him over once and turned to call for Henri.

"I've already sent him to get the physician," Marsac said, "we're lucky we got to them when we did,"

Porthos snorted, the man had no idea how right his words were he mused and refused to acknowledge how much he was dreading the idea of getting down from the horse. He noticed the two men coming closer to help and with a grunt of pain he swung over his leg with the torn stitches and slid down. A hiss escaping past his teeth as pain rippled up his legs and someone caught him before his knees folded.

"We were going to help you," said Treville.

It was the Captain who had ducked under his arm and Porthos shook his head as Marsac grasped the other.

"I'm fine,"

"Clearly," Marsac rolled his eyes.

But he didn't let go of his arm and pulling it over his neck directed them towards the infirmary door. Jaw clenched shut against the pain that every move stoked anew Porthos tried to take as much of his weight as he could; ignored the thought that he wouldn't have held on to his pride this tightly if it was Aramis helping him.

By the time he was lowered onto the nearest cot sweat had broken down his back. Taking measured breaths he quelled the desire to throw up and closed his eyes to calm the lingering dizziness. A hand on his shoulder had him looking up at the man he had never imagined would be concerned for him, but there it was, something close to worry etched in a frown on Marsac's face.

"Why are you helping me?"

The question left him before he could consider it.

Marsac shrugged, and helped him ease back against the wall at the head of the cot before looking at the still bleeding wound on his leg.

"I gave Aramis my word that I would," he said.

Clutching at his knee just over the gash Porthos glanced at Marsac.

"You should have brought him back first,"

"I know Aramis;" Marsac looked him in the eyes, "he would tend to a wounded dog and a bandit we had just fought before he would even feel the blow to his head. He was worried for you. He needed to see you safe and tended to before anyone could suggest we do the same for him,"

And in his early days at the garrison Porthos realized he may have found that hard to believe but now he couldn't deny that the man before him was telling him the truth. He silently took the offered bandage and wrapped it around his bleeding leg; looked up when the Captain entered the room with a man at his side, the bag clutched in the thin fellow's grasp announcing him as the physician.

"Monsieur Navin?" Marsac asked.

"He isn't in Paris at the moment," the Captain said, "Monsieur Basile offered to help,"

"I need to practice my stitches," the man said.

And that did not instill him with confidence at all. Porthos bit back a hiss as the pain told him that he had pulled his injured leg back. The failed attempt to protect his wound alerted Basile of his suffering and he did not like the way the young man moved closer, reaching for the quickly staining bandage.

"Don't,"

Basile looked at him.

"You are wounded,"

"Trust me, I know," he ground out.

He had spent the entire day wounded and helpless and doing nothing but slowing down his friend. He didn't need this child looking at him as if he had lost his mind to the pain, no he just – he just wanted to see Aramis.

Gritting his teeth he shook his head slightly.

The sound of a horse ridden into the yard had him looking to the door and moving to rise to his feet. It was not the pain but the Captain's sudden grasp on his shoulders that stopped him. Marsac headed out instead and a moment later the door opened further. Porthos felt something clench in his chest at the sight of Aramis tucked against Athos' side, leaning heavily against the man who had an arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders.

"He's in pain," Athos glanced towards the Captain.

Slowly he eased Aramis down to sit on a bed.

" 's not so bad,"

"It is,"

It was not the quick retort that surprised him but the hint of panic in the blue eyes that looked to them. That invisible hand around his heart tightened its grasp as Aramis sat with his eyes closed, sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, clearly shuddering from head to toe.

"What are his injuries?" Basile moved over to them, "where is he hurt?"

"He is called Aramis," the man opened his eyes, "and who are you?"

"Monsieur Basile is a physician," the Captain offered.

Porthos noticed that Treville had wrapped the wound on his leg in more linen and held it tightly, he didn't know why he hadn't even felt that but now that he saw it the pain lanced up as if miffed by his ignorance.

"A new physician?" Aramis was trembling, hands twitching where they lay on the edge of the bed at his sides, "All for me? Really Captain you shouldn't have."

The physician in question hovered in front of him.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing much; some evasion, some running, a good amount of walking and some carrying," Aramis smiled up at the man before the dark eyes shifted, "did you meet the new physician Porthos? Of course you didn't or you wouldn't be bleeding all over the place. Why is he still bleeding all over the place Monsieur Basile?"

And Porthos had to wonder how when the man was quaking in pain could make his smile look that dangerous. He wasn't surprised when the physician stepped back a bit and couldn't decide if he should be worried or touched by the amount of his friend's concern.

Aramis looked to him again.

"Are you still planning to die from blood loss?" he asked.

"He will not die of blood loss. I think the bleeding might taper off eventually but infection would surely set in without the stitches," Basile shrugged, "the flesh would rot and there will be fever and it may eventually kill him. But by then he would be delirious enough to not be stubborn and then I would cut off the leg at the knee and save his life,"

He was going to be sick, Porthos was sure of it. And he was certain that the bile he felt gathering at the back of his throat had nothing to do with the agony in his legs.

"Let's not pull out the saw just yet," Aramis said, "a needle would do I think."

He heard rather than saw his friend hold a breath and Porthos glanced in time to see Aramis stiffen, fingers clenching and loosening before releasing the breath slowly.

"What about you?" he asked and tried not to notice Basile making his way back towards him.

"What about me?"

"You're hurt,"

"No, I'm hurting,"

"From which you passed out," Athos added.

"For mere minutes," Aramis looked up at him and Porthos realized that the other man still had a hand on his friend's shoulder, "alright so maybe for a lot of minutes. But this is nothing that some rest, food and a few hot bricks wouldn't cure."

As Athos silently handed Aramis a cup of water and went out in search of the mentioned items Porthos bit back a growl.

"And you know medicine now?" he asked.

Basile had threaded the needle and was pulling at the bandages, the Captain had moved away to talk to Marsac at the door and he didn't want to think about the new pain heading his way; it was one thing to be injured, in a battle or otherwise, but it went entirely against his nature to sit and take the pain willingly.

"I do actually," Aramis' voice cut through his thoughts, "at least some. You would be surprised what a man can learn from the right teacher. She was beautiful mon ami, all big bright eyes and soft voice. A rather disturbing fondness for stitched up food though; chicken, meat, peaches, melons, apples she'd skin them and give them to me to close them back. You wouldn't believe how hard that is, I'd take an open wound any day. My lovely Amelia, she was a healer through and through, hands and mind."

"Are you sure that was what you were paying attention to?" he asked, "hands and mind,"

Aramis chuckled, bent to undo his boots and froze. Sat rigid in that posture and even if his hair hid his eyes Porthos could tell they were closed. He couldn't understand this arrogance that wouldn't let the man ask for help when he clearly needed it. When the trembling fingers fumbled with bootstraps something snapped in him.

"What's wrong with you?" he scowled.

"A lot of things," Aramis grinned as he went on with his work, "my boots are stuck for one, I need a good long wash before I faint from my own stink and I've got your blood on my clothes that Maeve will not be happy about,"

He watched the man sit up slowly and toe off his boots, at least he wasn't sweating as much as before but the wet sheen on his unnaturally pale skin was obvious.

"Your pride will get you killed one day," he sighed.

"Are you sure it won't be my foolishness? That's what the Captain usually bets on."

There was that familiar urge to strangle him, just beneath the worry for listening to his carefully measured breaths. Porthos stopped halfway to replying when Basile sat back and grabbed a roll of clean bandages, he hadn't paid mind to the needle piercing his skin.

"At least I would know why I got killed when that happens," Aramis added with a smile, his eyes going to the two men by the door, "because it would've really upset my immortal soul had we been killed this day while having no idea why, except that those men wanted that box. Not that I'm unimpressed by their tenacity in the chase but a reason would be appreciated Captain."

Treville turned to them with a sigh and Marsac moved ahead to pour Aramis another cup of water.

"You have the box from the Comte?" the Captain asked.

"It's in the bag Athos took with my weapons belt,"

"It holds the seal of the Comte's father," the Captain said, "it's a proof that it was not destroyed as it should have been at his death and therefore the new will that the Comte's younger brother had brought forward is suspicious,"

"But we have more proof of foul play now," Marsac said as he took the empty cup from Aramis and nudged his shoulder to get him to lie down.

Porthos couldn't see that happening, he knew that look in his friend's eyes. The man wouldn't rest until his curiosity was sated.

"So what's the proof?" he asked if only to get to the explanation quickly.

He let Basile tuck a pillow under both his legs and tried not to growl when the physician probed the sprained ankle; he really hoped it was sprained and not broken.

"After his brother came to him for this seal, the Comte sent a messenger to me knowing that his brother's men would hunt you down," Treville said, "and they did, proving their guilt."

"Convenient that this brother knew just the moment when the seal would be sent to Paris," Aramis said, "and how fortunate that the Comte sent a timely messenger to you,"

For a heartbeat silence held.

"That bastard!" Marsac turned around with a hand on his pistol, "he betrayed you. It was all a plan,"

Porthos could tell that the move stopped abruptly would have been a shrug had Aramis managed it and he wondered how the others weren't noticing it. The interment rigidness in his posture and the gasping edge to the man's words told him there was something clearly wrong, wrong enough to be seeping through his friend's control. But then, he reasoned that he had spent the entire day literally at the man's back so maybe he was the only one alert to these signs.

"Calm down Marsac, we need to handle this carefully," Treville's order caught his attention and he was not really surprised by the fury on the Musketeer's face.

"He could have gotten the two of them killed,"

And Porthos felt his eyes widen at being counted as someone this man decided to be enraged for.

"It's a risk we take being soldiers," he said, hoping to sooth.

"We are not their playthings," Marsac's gaze flashed to him.

"Are we not?" Aramis challenged.

And Marsac rounded on him.

"You will let this slide?"

"I will see him arrested and not murdered by your hands," Aramis looked up at him, words soft but firm, "and we need to be sure before we condemn someone. You going after the man with revenge on your mind won't help in that,"

"So what would you have me do? Run and hide like you've been doing all morning?"

"That's enough," Porthos scowled, rolling onto his side and up, legs swinging down the edge of the bed and feet coming to the floor. He didn't realize the pain it caused nor did he notice the echo of his words from Athos at the door.

"Or what?" Marsac turned fully, the rage in his eyes finding them an easy target.

"Or Athos could drop those hot bricks on your feet and we'd never know if it was an accident or not," Aramis spoke from where he sat.

The thought that the man hadn't ventured to stand stirred his unease further and Porthos glanced towards him. But his friend winked at him and grinned at Marsac's back.

"Remember when that woman dropped a barrel on your foot?" he went on, "I bet it would be at least as bad. And you'll have to do with Monsieur Doom and Gloom here who is quite ready to finally get a limb he can saw off. "

Marsac grit his teeth; head bowing slightly before he walked out of the infirmary.

Porthos sat down heavily, the grip on his arm softening the abrupt change and he looked to his side to find the physician there, maybe the man wasn't that bad he mused. Holding back a groan he let the man help him pull his legs back up and watched Athos move to put the two wrapped hot bricks he carried onto Aramis' bed, before he hand over the bag from his shoulder to Treville.

"I'll see what to do with the Comte," the Captain said before looking to the physician, "how's he doing?"

"A wound that needed stitching and the other ankle could have a broken bone. I can't determined until the swelling goes down," Basile shrugged, "no more damaged than he was before I got here,"

"And here I was hoping he would be better off," Aramis looked to them, "for someone who hates getting stitched up you seem intent upon repeating the procedure Porthos,"

"He doesn't need new stitches," the physician declared, "but how are you doing?"

"As fine as I could be given the situation,"

"But then no one is ever completely fine, there is always a sickness brewing beyond what the eye can see," Basile announced, "it strikes unknown, silent and unobtrusive. One only feels it when its teeth are well and truly hooked into him."

That stopped him halfway from leaning back against the wall; Porthos looked to the Captain who stood wide-eyed, to Athos whose eyebrows had disappeared into his hair and Aramis who was grinning wide. He could see the glee in those dark eyes and he did not want to give him a chance to encourage this man.

"Captain?" he refused believe his voice held trepidation.

"Yes, well," Treville turned to Aramis, "are you sure that you don't need a physician?"

"I think I would like Monsieur Basile to stay," the smile on that face was far too innocent but it faltered under Treville's glare, "or he could leave me something for the pain?"

As the physician moved over to check the other man, Treville took the bag and headed out. Porthos wanted to ask his Captain how he wanted to handle the situation, he hoped that the man would keep an eye on Marsac and wished that he would not allow that Musketeer back in the infirmary, at least not for the rest of the night. While first he had guessed now he was sure that the Captain was right in keeping Marsac away from his friend in such circumstances, it was for the best, Aramis didn't need his temper when he was hurting.

Hurting because he had carried him for hours, for the entire day; how was he supposed to thank the man for that?

"Porthos?"

He blinked to find Athos standing by his bed. The man held a steaming cup in his hand.

"Basile said you needed it too, for the pain,"

He took the offered cup.

"Thanks," he sipped the brew and glanced to Aramis who had divested his coat and sat propped up by the wall at the head of his bed, "how is he?"

"He took the draught," there was a hint of uncertainty in Athos' voice, "we're waiting for it to take effect"

"Are there any wounds?"

Athos shook his head.

"Then why did he –"

"Exhaustion, strain, thirst," Athos took the empty cup from his hand, "at least that's what he told me when he came around,"

"And the physician?"

"Is certain that his heart would give out at any moment," Athos took his hat off and set it on the table beside the bed, "but then it's Monsieur Basile,"

Porthos nodded and tried to believe that the physician was simply going for the worst result possible, Aramis was talking and moving and thinking clearly, he couldn't be that bad off. He yawned; sleep tugging at the edges of his thoughts suddenly. Somewhere there was a hand on his shoulder easing him down onto his back, the pain throbbing up from both his legs dulled into a far beat and he fell into the darkness creeping through his mind.

* * *

It starts from some knot under his skin that forms anywhere on his back, tightens, twists and pulls at his muscles until he can't breathe for the pain. Keeping his eyes closed and jaw clenched shut he rode out the next set of spasms in his back, the muscles in his legs twitching in misery of their own. He truly hoped that he didn't start screaming soon, Porthos had only just dozed off after waking up in pain. Maybe it wasn't just him the draught wasn't working on he decided as he opened his eyes and resisted the need to move.

Aramis licked his lips, the heat that he sought to ease his pains was adding to the thirst that he couldn't seem to quench. Rolling slightly to the side he pushed to rise himself up on his elbow and stilled. His shoulder locked in agony, dull and hard. It added to the ache wrapped around the back of his head and stoked the sick feeling roiling in his gut. Letting his chin drop to his chest he forced himself to breathe. Wasn't surprised how hard that was with the stiffness that had settled in bands around his ribs.

Hands grasped suddenly him by the upper arms and helped him sit up with his back to the wall; the blanket was pulled up until it was up to his shoulders again. His cracked lips stung as they pulled into a smirk.

"Should I be worried for the Captain's life?" he asked.

"Better worry about your own," Marsac handed him a cup of water, "you don't seem to be getting better,"

"Basile gave me the strongest herbs he had for the pain," he tensed, tried to keep his breathing even, "and that's all it is. No wound to tend, no illness to cure."

"Drink that," Marsac nodded towards the cup as he sat in the chair by the bed.

He obliged with a sip, wanted nothing more than to gulp it down yet the water he drank sat sour in his stomach, but his throat ached and his mouth felt leathery if he didn't; life enjoyed poking fun at him like that he was sure of it by now. Another bigger ripple of pain rolled through him, back arching slightly even as he tried to hold still. He couldn't tell when Marsac had pulled the cup away from his grasp, there was only this invisible net of pain tightening in his flesh.

Count it out, count it out he reminded himself. A trick he had learned at an early age. Sucking in a breath he let himself fall back against the wall, blew out and gulped more air, rubbing at his chest.

"What's happening?"

He looked up at Marsac, he had no idea when the man had come to stand over him nor had he felt the grasp on his shoulder.

"Aramis?"

"What?"

"You don't sound good,"

"I always sound good mon ami. Beautiful even, as the ladies have noticed," he pressed a hand over his heart; it hadn't slowed to norm since their walk in the woods, "thrilling, dreamy and –"

"Shut it Aramis,"

He grinned.

"Testy,"

"And very close to hitting you," Marsac gave him a slight shake, "What can I do?"

He bit his lip to keep from groaning as another wave of knots and rolls and jumps passed through his muscles. He needed to drink water, needed to eat and needed to sleep, he knew that; and shook his head at his body that didn't seem to get the message.

"Knock me out?" he half smiled.

"And add to your headache?"

Sometimes he forgot how well the man could read him.

"I just need to rest and –" his breath caught, a low hum of displeasure slipping past his control as he waited for the pain to ebb again.

Slumping against the wall at his back he pulled in a ragged breath and uncurled his fists where they've gotten a death grip on the blanket. Blinking slowly he winced at the little twitches under his skin that would soon gather for another tide; he wished for sleep but exhaustion was pulling him one way while pain the other. The hand on his shoulder had him looking up at Marsac.

"The Captain agreed to send me to collect the Comte, and no I don't plan to lose him in an 'accident' on the way," he shook his head even as he smiled, "but I'm going to go get Basile now. I'll send him to you before preparing to ride out. He has to have something to help you with this,"

He knew what the physician could offer him and he didn't want that. But Marsac doesn't know and he couldn't be sure that the man would even understand if he did. But before he could explain himself his friend was past the door and out into the night.

"Didn't take you to be the eavesdropping type Porthos," he said out loud and turned to the man laying two beds across on his right, "we could have had so much fun by now if I had known."

He watched the man push himself to sit up against the wall at the head of his bed, grumbling under his breath; he was not prepared by the anger in the dark eyes that turned to him.

"Where's Athos?" Porthos asked.

"He went to get the new pair of heated bricks," he replied, refrained from shifting too much, "and are you generally this grumpy upon waking or is this a special occasion?"

It couldn't be from the pain, he hadn't been irritated when he woke the first time around Aramis reminded himself as he rubbed at his chest over his heart. Eyebrows pulling together in a frown as Porthos glowered back at him.

"Why aren't you angry?" asked the man.

"Why? Is your rage feeling lonely?"

Porthos' eyes narrowed.

"Why are you not mad at Marsac?"

Ah, there it is. He couldn't keep the smile from his face.

"Because I forgave him,"

"He didn't ask for it,"

"He did by coming back," he would have shrugged if the pain had allowed it, "It's what he does; walking away in a huff and coming back once he's calmed and contrite. It's all very dramatic."

"So you forgive him every time just because he comes back?" Porthos sounded like he wished to smack him upside the head. He knew that tone easily, plenty of people addressed him with it.

"Yes...?" He doesn't like that it comes out in a question.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Do you really need the list right now?" he countered.

Porthos shifted, grunted in the pain it cost him and shook his head.

"You can't just forgive him like that," he ground out, "why would you accept an apology that's not given?"

And it was in the way that the man avoided in looking at him, the way Porthos' eyes cast down to his lap that he understood the confusion beneath the surface. Aramis sat straighter, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from voicing the pain that crested again and making sure that it didn't show on his face, this was more important.

"The same reason Marsac always comes back," he said once he was sure his breath wouldn't hitch from the shudders he was suppressing, "the one for which Athos is staying up to keep my blankets in supply of heated bricks and the same reason I wouldn't abandon you to those men,"

Porthos looked back at him so fast Aramis felt for the crick in his neck. He smiled back at the oddly bright dark eyes of the latest Musketeer recruit.

"Because we're brothers," Aramis said, "and at the end that is what remains,"

Porthos looked away.

He didn't look back up until Athos returned with another bundle of heated bricks and Monsieur Basile at his heels. The physician rubbed at his eyes as he neared him, a frown scrunching his face as he took in the appearance of the Musketeers before him.

"The herbs are not working," Basile nodded to himself, "you won't start getting better until you rest,"

"Believe me Monsieur Physician I'm trying,"

"I have something here that may help," the man reached into his bag.

"No," Aramis shook his head, "I don't need that,"

"Quit being stubborn," Porthos growled from his bed.

He flashed him a grin, "but it's the part of my charm,"

"Aramis," Athos said, part warning part concerned.

And it was the latter that silenced the retort on his lips. The blue eyes looking to him held that stern worry for his wellbeing that he hadn't found coming his way often. Pulling his gaze away he watched Basile squinting at the small bottle in his hand. He knew what it held; he had seen mere teaspoons of the liquid finish off ailing men. And as much as he was considered reckless he did rather enjoy being generally alive and breathing.

"Tincture of poppy," Basile said, "It will –"

"Help with the pain," he nodded, "if I wake up again that is,"

"What?" Porthos sat up suddenly, hissed as he curled forwards a little, "what do you mean if?"

"I mean that if I drink this I may just fall into a more eternal sort of sleep," he replied before a smile teased through even as he made a face, "I'm not _that_ tired to be honest,"

He was not expecting Porthos to stand up suddenly in one fluid motion. The man groaned and swayed, weight shifting undecidedly on his legs even as Athos hurried over to him.

"Two wounded legs Porthos, remember?" he half rose to help his friend before another vicious cramp stalled him halfway.

By the time he had his breath back Athos had helped Porthos into the chair by his bed. Aramis couldn't decide if he should congratulate his friend or berate him. Chuckling slightly he eased back into his former position, trying not to wince at his body that felt adamant in tearing itself apart.

"I think I should pin it in writing to your breeches," he said, "this one is wounded' and 'this one is sprained',"

He could ask Serge for the paste he used to stick the notes on his jars.

"Explain this tincture would you?" Porthos rubbed at the spot over his knee, grimacing as Athos put another chair before him and helped his feet up.

"The essence is dangerous if not given in correct amount," Basile nodded, "it can put him into a sleep that he may not be revived from or it can slow his breathing to a stop while he sleeps. But it can also allow him rest that would start the healing his body needs,"

"And there is nothing else that can help?"

Aramis rubbed at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose even as he shook his head.

"There isn't," he wasn't sure if he was telling himself or his friends.

And he wasn't sure when he had earned the looks of pained worry that Athos and Porthos fixed him with. He looked to the bottle in Basile's hand and nodded.

"Go ahead," he said, "measure it out,"

The silence fell heavy as Basile took his supplies and a lantern and moved to the table by the window. He didn't like the way anxiety creased his friends' faces and gathered in the pinched corners of their mouths and eyes. He didn't understand why they apparently felt it so intensely but he'd be lying if some strange warmth didn't uncurl in his aching chest.

"Don't look like that, it's not my funeral yet," he grinned at them, "and I'm in no hurry to attend it either just to be clear. Not before I've dragged you both to a party at Madame Angel's and Marsac still owes me a meal I fully intend to collect at that inn by the north gate. Do you think I'd die before tasting that roast again? No my friends, I am going to steal that recipe for Serge and share the fortune of good flavors. But the Captain wouldn't like my 'borrowing' idea so I'll need you Athos to make him see reason, he likes you. And while you're at it maybe you could look at his paperwork too? I am pushing him to better is writing but as it is, it becomes legible after a few tries and once you're used to it you'll be breezing through making copies for him in no time. And Porthos would you –"

"Do you ever shut up?" the big man groaned.

"He talks in his sleep," Athos said.

"I do not!"

An eloquent brow rose over a blue eye.

"It happened one time," Aramis reminded him, "and because I wasn't comfortable enough to actually fall sleep,"

He refused to let his grin falter as Basile returned to them with a cup in hand and took it from his grasp without a word. Assuring himself that the trembling in his hands hadn't increased, he stared at the pale red tint to the water that was hardly visible in the lantern lit infirmary. He looked up with a smirk.

And gulped the bitter mixture in one go.

He handed the empty cup back to Basile, eyes widening slightly when Porthos grasped the wrist of his now freed hand. A peculiar heaviness was spreading through him, seeping into his quieting muscles and he felt himself sinking into the bed; frowned when he noticed that he had been ease down but not completely flat on his back. He opened his eyes that he didn't remember closing but the hazy world didn't make sense, and he wondered what the sudden light weight added onto his lungs meant.

"Rest now Aramis," it was Athos, it was his hand placed over his chest that he felt.

He blinked, tried to clear the blur in his sight and hoped that it was a smile not a grimace that showed on his face.

The grasp around is wrist squeezed gently.

"But don't keep us waiting for too long eh?"

And if the last thing he knew of this life was that he had somehow broken through the walls of the two most stubbornly wary Musketeers, then it was the best knowledge to depart with he decided.

* * *

He had no idea how long they sat in silence.

It was still not long enough for him to forget how disturbingly quickly the medicine had stolen away the vitality from his friend, how it had muffled the expressions and smothered any movement, voluntary or otherwise. Porthos couldn't get the image of Aramis' eyes, their pupils shrunk into dots, out of his mind. His grasp tightened onto the wrist he held and the feel of heartbeat there was a relief.

"I know he needed it but I wouldn't have asked him to take it," he spoke up, not sure if the other man on watch duty would even be interested to know, "I mean I probably should have but I couldn't have, with so much possibility of –" he shook his head, "how could he make a split-second decision about taking it?"

"He didn't want to burden us with responsibility either way,"

He looked up in surprise, having half expected Athos to ignore him. Another gentle squeeze and the responding heartbeat allowed a smile to his face. He didn't realize he had pulled the items out of the pocket he had sewn inside his shirt until he was staring down at them lying in his free hand. The queen of diamonds and a coin, both with a hole shot through.

This was Aramis, sure and precise.

But there was so much more to that, so much more that he knew now. The memory of his declaration to not be friends with the man he couldn't respect came to mind. He shook his head.

"Never thought I'd be sitting here this worried to keep him alive,"

"Lichen," Athos said, "that is what he is,"

Porthos looked to the man sitting across from him on the other side of the bed and felt a grin pulling at his lips at the accusing look in the slightly narrowed blue eyes focused on Aramis. He couldn't help grinning wider as Athos glanced to him before the man shifted, reached inside his doublet with the hand not resting on Aramis' chest and tossed the item on the blanket.

Porthos stared.

A king of spades and a coin, held together by a thread looped through the holes in each.

"I wasn't the first one to question his abilities," Athos said.

"But you were one he chose to prove them to," Porthos nodded and looked back to the sleeping Musketeer as Athos retrieved his belongings.

Why? He wanted to ask the man. Why him? Why Athos? Why make such an effort to coax them into being his friends? And once he may have believed it was because of the need to placate the arrogance Aramis had draped around himself, but not now when he knew the man. Porthos shook his head, because it had been there, in that first day when Aramis had given him the tour of the garrison, his answer was there in the details like Aramis knowing each Musketeer by name, or that he often stopped to talk to them, the way he was with Serge. It was simply Aramis' way to show people that they mattered.

Sitting back in the chair he clutched the card and the coin, thumb swiping aimlessly over the wrist he held in his other hand as he swallowed against the unexpected lump stuck in his throat. Because maybe Porthos told himself; maybe Aramis went out of the way for him and Athos because they had resisted the most. Maybe he had somehow seen their deeply buried hurts and the acceptance that that no one cared for those. Maybe that is why he had tried harder to show them otherwise.

Yet he had not missed the fleeting confusion and awe in his friend's eyes when he had found them worried for him over this tincture. He remembered the confusion over gratitude and apology the first time around he had offered them to the man. Perhaps there was a similar hurt covered behind the self-assured persona Porthos mused as his gaze flew back to the pale face relaxed in unconsciousness. Without a grin or a smirk or words to mask the features, the defenseless visage brought an odd stinging to his eyes.

Blinking to clear his view he stowed away the things in his hand and looked to the man who seemed content to feel each inhale and exhale from their friend between them. Porthos smirked.

"When I was new here I thought you didn't like him," he said.

"I didn't,"

Porthos raised a brow.

"Our first encounter wasn't friendly,"

"Did he pretend to be the Captain?"

Athos looked away, head tilting enough to hide his face under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.

"It was a series of bad encounters," he said.

"And yet here you are,"

Athos tipped his head as if in acquiescence and the blue eyes turned to the unconscious man, Porthos was sure did not imagine the fondness there.

"Lichen," said Athos.

And Porthos smirked.

He looked to the door at the sound of approaching footsteps and was only a little surprised to see the Captain enter, in the short while that he had known Treville it was clear that the man took care of those under his command. Still the way his gaze pinned onto the unconscious figure on the bed had Porthos raising his brows.

"Marsac said he had to call Monsieur Basile again," the Captain said.

"The pain wasn't abating; he gave him the essence of poppy," said Athos.

The Captain nodded, eyes pinching at the corners as he grasped the back of the chair Porthos had propped up his feet upon. He had half a mind to pull them away and offer the seat to his Captain, if only to make sure there was no lingering damage from the sudden paleness to his face.

"I didn't think it was that bad," Treville's voice was low.

"He did his best to keep it that way for all of us," Porthos said, "Marsac saw through it,"

And he didn't understand why that knowledge left him offended. The man had known him longer than him and even Athos he reasoned, but that didn't stop him from tightening his grasp on Aramis' wrist and vowing to not be fooled by his indifference towards pain.

"And how are you holding up?" Treville turned to him.

Porthos blinked, he had been concentrating so hard on timing his friend's heartbeat that he hadn't registered the pain until it snapped at him at the Captain's words. He smiled even as he grimaced; rolling his eyes because somehow even without talking Aramis had managed to keep his mind off the pain.

"Better than I was at the start of this," he said, "the pain is there but not so bad."

"It'll be back once he's up and about," Treville's smiled.

"With a headache to go with it," Athos said.

Porthos chuckled but couldn't deny it, he almost expected Aramis to refute the implications and he suddenly anticipated the chatter induced headache when the man remained silent. Something heavy settled in the gap between his lungs.

"We made it back. I'm here and I still can't believe he did it," he drew his free hand down his face, "he literally carried him through the day. How did he do that? I mean look at 'im,"

Because in the dim lighting of the infirmary, without weapons or shoes or the usual hat and coat, stripped of the vibrancy that his words and gestures afforded Aramis looked smaller. The brightness he exuded wasn't there in sleep; he wasn't filling in the empty spaces as he had the tendency to do.

"You should have seen him three years ago," the Captain smirked, "one of the scrawnier nineteen year olds that I'd encountered but he still hefted me onto his shoulder and got us out of the battlefield."

Porthos stared, so did Athos.

"That's how I found the first soldier for my regiment,"

"What?" Porthos voiced what he could tell Athos was thinking too.

Apparently this was news to him as well.

"Of course he never tells anyone," Treville shrugged a shoulder, "I mean the earlier recruits know he was there before them but yes, this is my first Musketeer,"

And suddenly Porthos understood why the Captain allowed the man leeway, tolerated his not so lawful plans and mutterings and mischief. He knew now why Treville trusted him with the papers that should be solely for the Captain's eyes and why he had foisted the man upon him for an introduction to the regiment. How had Aramis not mentioned that he wondered; how it had not slipped into his often runaway observations? Porthos' eyes widened in realization that for all the incessant chatter his new friend didn't share what he didn't want to.

He started a bit at the grasp on his arm and looked up at the Captain standing at his side.

"Come on then," said the man, "you need the rest too,"

"I'll be fine here,"

"You'll be better off on the bed," Captain told him, "I'll take this watch and Athos the next,"

"But –"

"That's an order," Treville cut him off; "you two will rest. In here if you want to but you're getting some sleep,"

Taking a few more reassuring beats under his fingers he complied, was more than glad by the help the Captain offered when the sudden shift to his feet flared both his injuries anew. He took the bed on his other side instead of going to his own and frowned when Athos offered him a cup.

"No point to keep on suffering," the man said.

"What if he –?"

"The Captain will know if something changes," Athos said, "and so will I when it's my turn,"

Porthos took the offered cup and stared at the Captain's back as the man sat in one of the chairs. His gaze drifted back to Aramis and he frowned.

"How do I thank him for this when he –" he stopped short, not sure if Athos would understand what he was saying.

The tap on his shoulder made him look back up at the blue eyes watching him.

"You show him," Athos said.

And he was somehow not shocked that the man was aware of their friend getting honestly confused by the gratitude coming his way. He nodded, lifted the cup but stopped before he could drink.

"I need to watch his back," it left him in a rush; "I mean I can't just leave him like that."

"You're leaving him in good hands," Athos' lips tipped up in a smile, "we intended to keep him alive too,"

And he could not counter that. It still didn't stop him from staring at the man sleeping in the bed next to his. Even as he laid down and the herbs softened the pain, even as exhaustion claimed his body and sleep crawled up to his mind Porthos still watched the slow rise and fall of Aramis' breathing.

When he blinked next there was light.

The pale glow of winter morning flowed in from the windows and the open door, he shifted just a little more under the blanket and savored the warmth. Someone moved beside his bed and he rolled to his other side to come face to face with Basile. The man was bent over the Musketeer in the other bed and had turned just as he had shifted.

Grinning at the startled look on the physician's face Porthos eased himself up on the elbow.

"How's he doing?" he asked.

"Sleeping," Basile replied, "and not from the tincture. Your Captain told me he awoke at dawn before falling asleep again."

With a grunt Porthos pushed himself further up, reflexively clutching the leg that thrummed with more pain than the other. A few minutes of careful testing told him that it was the sprained ankle that was still refusing to cooperate.

"It may be a fracture," Basile pointed out, "the swelling hadn't gone down as much as it should have."

"And what about him?"

"A day's rest and food and he will likely be back on his feet," the physician sounded bored.

Porthos felt his stomach rumble at the mention of food and realized he hadn't eaten since last morning. While hunger was no stranger he still didn't feel like wallowing in it, not when he knew breakfast was served out at the table in the yard. As he moved to push his legs off the edge of the cot Basile turned to him with a sigh.

"Wait," he said and retrieved a crutch from by the infirmary door, "use this if you must move about,"

He took the offered help with a nod of thanks and stood, gaze moving to Aramis who had turned onto his side and curled slightly. The tension Porthos hadn't registered settling between his shoulders eased off at the sight. He turned away as Basile left the infirmary and he followed him out at a slower pace. A smile blooming on his face as he breathed in the cold morning air filled with the smell of dirt, horses and gunpowder. And there was the undercurrent of baked bread, porridge and eggs. He followed his nose to the table in the yard where a lonely Musketeer was choosing breakfast.

Athos turned at the sound of his approach.

"I was about to bring you breakfast,"

"I've never been one to keep the food waiting," he replied.

Lowering onto the bench he let Athos take the crutch from him, shifted until he had a back to the post and his swollen ankle pulled up.

"Broken?" Athos asked as he handed him a plate filled with food.

"Not sure yet," he took a bite from the bread, "Basile thinks the swelling should have receded more."

"It might have if you had stopped putting weight on it,"

Porthos shrugged and turned his attention to breakfast; they ate in the silence of the early morn, one that never lasted long in the garrison yard. Soon the men on duty would be returning and so would be those who had rooms outside of the garrison. He could already sense the men in the barracks waking up; yet Porthos was not expecting the much too happy voice for the hour.

"Did you miss me?" Aramis asked.

And he turned around to watch the man pull the lapels of his coat closer together as he slowly made his way over to them; the smile on his face rivaling the sunbeams that were cutting through the winter haze. Porthos resisted the sudden urge to drop his face into his open palm. Unawares, or most likely ignoring the inclination Porthos was sure the man could read in his gaze Aramis grinned as he neared and sat down by his swollen ankle on the bench.

"Be honest Porthos, is my hair starting to smoke? My eyebrows singed?" he asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"I think Athos' trying to set me on fire with sight alone," he patted one of his ears, "tell me, is it starting to burn?"

"Should you be out of bed this soon?" Athos asked.

"If Porthos gets to come out into the yard then so do I." Aramis said, "Besides, I'm hungry and thirsty and bored. I think the three of us shou –"

Porthos cut him off by stuffing a piece of bread into his friend's mouth none too gently. Leaning back, his grin gave way to chuckles at the indignant sputtering. As Aramis slapped a hand over his mouth and worked to swallow Porthos glanced to the man at his side; felt oddly content by the ghost of a smile on Athos' face.

Brothers Aramis had called them, a sentiment he had been included in at least by one Musketeer; he could not deny it anymore after yesterday's events. He remembered Charon, remembered the weight of such a bond, its security and constrictions, and he remembered the pain he felt by breaking away from it. He had promised himself never to let anyone get that close again.

But as he watched the men trickling out into the yard he couldn't disagree that this regiment was different, not when the men asked after his wounds with a mix of teasing and concern, advised and warned him about their own experiences with such injuries and even those he hadn't talked a lot with stopped by to show regard for his troubles. It was a small regiment, thirty-seven men with him included, but Porthos could see now where their strength lay. The words he had read at the gates upon his arrival were more than that it seemed.

"All for one, and one for all," he murmured.

He looked up from his plate, surprised to find that Aramis not with them. He had no idea when the man had drifted out with the others but was not surprised to find him in the middle of a group, an arm draped over the shoulder of one of the musketeers Porthos didn't yet know well, as he talked to Big Pierre and Mathieu at his side. He couldn't keep his grin in check as Aramis patted the man beside him on the shoulder and bounded back to the table, flopping down on the bench across from him.

"Porthos my friend I'm afraid that you'll miss it," he said.

Porthos bit into an apple.

"The clear cold nights, starlit sky and campfire," Aramis went on, "with those wounds I don't think you'll be going this year. But don't worry Athos will be here too it seems. Because the Captain likes him more. Don't look at me like that we all know you how much you hate snow."

Porthos glanced at the man at his side who had a blank look on his face.

Aramis shook his head even as a grin twitched at his lips.

"You shove snow down his back one time and suddenly the man doesn't trust you around it," he said.

Porthos did not want to think what Athos would have done to the man for that, he was surprised that Aramis was still alive.

"When do you leave?" Athos asked.

"Four days from now,"

"Where are you going?" Porthos asked.

And no, he was not going to miss having the man around; he was just disappointed about missing this trip wherever it was heading.

"Savoy," Aramis turned around to face the yard and with his elbows resting back on the table he watched the men gathering for morning muster, "it's a tradition of sorts, the Captain likes to think it's a training exercise but we all know he just wants a few days of rest. So once a year he packs most us of out for camping at this forest at the edge of Savoy. I haven't missed it the first two times and I won't be missing this one either."

"A blessing for the Captain I'm sure," Athos said.

Aramis laughed. Head thrown back, eyes crinkled shut and leaning back heavily on his elbows. A brother Porthos grinned, his brother, and he chucked the apple core at his head.

* * *

 _ **Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.**_

– _ **Theodor Seuss Geisel**_

* * *

 **END**


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